UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


H 


THE 


POETS  QF  MAINE 


A  COLLECTION  OF  SPECIMEN  POEMS  FROM  OVER  FOUR  HUN 
DRED  VERSE-MAKERS  OF  THE  PINE-TREE 'STATE 


"WITH 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 


COMPILED  BY 

GEORGE  BANCROFT  GRIFFITH 


PORTLAND,  MAINE 

EL  WELL,  PICKARD  &  COMPANY 

transcript  Job  print       €fcfoarb  Small,  $i 


LIBBARIAE' 


TO 
THE  SONS  AND  DAUGHTERS  OF 

MAINE 

AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD 
THIS  VOLUME  IS  RESPECTFULLY 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

ELWKLL,  I'ICKARD  *  Co 
1888 


PREFACE. 


If  it  be  hardly  true  that  "  there  lives  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
to  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense,"  it  is  a  fact  that  very  many  ap 
preciate  verse  which  contains  the  soul  of  imagination.  We  do  not  claim 
that  all  the  poetry  in  this  volume  reaches  that  standard,  but  it  is  a  home 
book,  and,  whatever  its  imperfections  may  be,  we  trust  it  will  be  received 
as  a  fair  specimen  of  the  poetical  literature  of  the  State. 

It  is  claimed  that  Maine's  first  poet  was  JOHN  CROWNE,  born  about  1640, 
though  heretofore  Nova  Scotia  has  held  that  he  was  her  son.  A  Boston 
author  declares  that  this  rival  of  Dryden,  and  distinguished  dramatist, 
was  a  native  of  our  then  Province,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty  was  living 
here.  The  Boston  Public  Library  has  his  dramatic  works  and  transla 
tions  in  verse,  but  we  have  not  been  able  to  secure  one  of  his  original 
poems. 

The  Hallowell  press,  in  1797,  issued  the  earliest  bound  book  printed 
and  published  in  Maine,  a  thin  duodecimo,  entitled  "Female  Friend 
ships,"  and  the  first  regular  work  in  verse  was  Gov.  Lincoln's  volume, 
entitled  "The  Village,"  brought  out  in  1816.  The  only  volumes' similar 
in  character  to  our  own  published  thus  far  in  Maine  have  been  "The 
Bowdoin  Poets,"  in  1840,  and  the  "Native  Poets  of  Maine,"  in  1854,  copies 
of  which  are  now  rare.  We  have  drawn  from  them  much  interesting 
matter  not  elsewhere  accessible. 

We  acknowledge  our  indebtedness  also  to  several  of  the  Town  Histories 
for  copies  of  published  poems,  and  for  personal  favors  from  some  of  the 
historians  themselves.  Also  to  Harper  &  Bros.,  and  the  Century  Co.,  of 
New  York,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  and  Ticknor  &  Co.,  of  Boston,  for 
poetical  extracts  from  their  publications  of  our  native  writers,  and  to  the 
State  press  for  kindly  notices  in  advance. 

The  compiler  returns  thanks  to  the  many  contributors  for  their  gener 
ous  response  to  his  circular,  and  especially  to  the  large  number  who  have 


215589 


iv  PREFACE. 


furnished  articles  written  expressly  for  our  volume.  It  is  but  just  that 
he  should  individually  name  Mrs.  CAROLINE  DANA  HOWE,  of  Portland; 
Prof.  GEORGE  T.  LITTLE,  of  Bowdoin  College;  Rev.  JOHN  HEMMENWAY, 
of  St.  Anthony's  Park,  Minn.,  formerly  of  Portland;  Mr.  A.  F.  LEWIS,  of 
Fryeburg,  and  Mr.  ALFRED  COLE,  of  Buckfield,  who  have  kindly  aided 
him  in  many  ways. 

We  regret,  though  we  had  authority  for  so  doing,  the  admission  of  the 
name  of  the  late  Frances  Sargent  Osgood,  of  Boston,  into  the  volume  as 
a  native  of  Maine. 

A  few  contributions,  received  too  late  for  insertion  in  the  body  of  the 
work,  have  been  placed  upon  the  last  pages  of  the  volume. 

In  conclusion  we  would  say  that  toward  the  publishers  of  this  work, 
whose  long  connection  with  one  of  the  leading  literary  and  family  jour 
nals  of  New  England  has  made  their  names  familiar  to  all,  every  true 
Maine  man  and  woman  will  entertain  a  feeling  of  gratitude  and  good 
will  for  having  thus  given  place  and  prominence  to  the  best  poetical 
thoughts  of  the  sons  and  daughters,  and  adopted  children,  as  well,  of 
the  PINE  TREE  STATE.  G.  B.  G. 


TABLE  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 


PAGE  PAQK 

Adams,  John  Greenleaf 141 1  Burns,  Nellie  Marie  ...     764 

Akers,  Benjamin  Paul  315 ,  Barrage,  Henry  Svveetser 566 

Allen,  Elizabeth  Akers 470 !  Butler,  Helen  Hamlin 828 

Allen,  Hannah  E.  M 452  j 

Allen,  William ^  Came,  Charles  Greene 338 

Allen,  Willis  Boycl 796  Carpenter,  Henry  Bernard 644 

Andrew,  John  Albion 210  Carter,  Matilda  Parker 165 

Andrews,  Josiah 843  Carter,  Nathan  Franklin 405 

Arnold,  Harriet  E.  P 819; Carter,  Nathaniel  Haseltine....    28 

Atwood,  Julia  A.  N .  425;  Case,  Luella  J.  B  117 

Author  Unknown 847  Cass,  Emma  Marie 746 

Averill,  Anna  Boynton 689  Caverly,  Robert  Boody 


Bachelder,  Eugene 291 


Cavazza,  Elisabeth 718 


Bailey,  Abby  N.  W 242  Chapman,  Harry  J 809 

Bailey,  George  Albert 252  Charles,  Harriet  E 581 

Baker,  Harriet  Selclen 31)7  ghilcott,  Jamus  Clemens .......  462 

Banks,  Charles  Edward 793  ghoate,  Isaac  Bassett 4S5 

Bangs,  Josiah  D 1(52 !  clal>P,  Susan  F.  P 204 

Bangs,  Josiah  Warner 430  Clark,  Susie  R.  S...    723 

Bangs,  Pauline  A 104  Cleveland,  N  eh  emiah 49 

Barbour,  Francis 144  Coan,  Leander  S 593 

Barker,  David .197  Cobb>  Eunice  H.  W 74 

Barnes,  Lucy 2(5  Cobb,  Isaac 309 

Barstow,  Ellen  Merrill 115  Colby,  Albert 583 

Bartlett,  Joseph 10  Colby,  Jolin  Stark 772 

Bartol,  Cyrus  Augustus 1(57 !  Colcord,  Edward  John  738- 

Bartol    Alary  •>')•>  Colcord,  Martha  Owen 684* 

Batem'an,  Elizabeth  H.'.'.V.V.!    '. '.  80S  Colconi,   Millie.... 824 

Bates,  Arlo 763  ^ole,  Alfred 675 

Baxter,  James  Phinney 450 1  Cole>  Samuel  Valentine 779 

Beck,  Michael  Wentworth...       .  190  Colesworthy,  Daniel  Clement. .  139 

Beckett,  Sylvester  Breakmore      159  i  Cook,  Katherine  Stone 837 

Beckwith,  Nicholas  Warren ....  510'  Coombs,  Emma  J 664 

Beckwith,  Susan  Rhyce 601  i  Condon,  Amasa  Stetson (558 

Bellows,  John  Adams 717  Cousins.  Samuel  Pedrick 426 

Bennett,  Sarah  S.  W 588  Crabtree,  Thomas  Alden 431 

Berry  Ira  <5L  Crafts,  Wilbur  Fisk 775 

Berry!  Sarah  w'.*S.' .' .' .' .'. '.'.".'.' ! .' .'.'  813 ;  Crane>  <*eorge  Bond GDI 

Berry,  Stephen . .  . .  496 1  Cressey,  Thaddeus  Pomeroy . ...  336 

"r»  •        i  .       {^i*r\r*lrr\4-  4-      "\7"r*o-fo      T-?  r^r»-»  r\l /I  o  'T.tQ 


Bixby,  Amos 461 

Blacker,  Martha  Waldron 226 

Blake,  Eunice  Gary 172 

Blanchard,  Isaac  Gray 254 

Blanchard,  Mary  Ellen 768 

Bolles,  Margaret  A 648 


Crockett,  Vesta  Reynolds 743 

Crosby,  Eliza  L.  A 619 

Crosby,  William  George 76 

Grossman,  Annette  W. . . , 730 

Cummings,  Mary  H.  P 1)3 

Cummings,  Mary  J 614 


Bradley,  Harriet  Lewis  ........  753!Curfcls>  Prudence  E.  R  .........  476 

Oak 


,  ........ 

Bray,  Nellie  Grace  ..............  833  £LlLtls'          -  « 

Briggs,  Edwin  Ruthven  ........  654  Cutter,  William.  .  .  .  ............    ( 


Brown,  Anna  S 416 

Brown,  James  Olcott 743 

Browne,  Hiram  Hubbard 591 

Browne,  Jacob  Wardwell 302 

Burgess,  Alexander 260 

Burgess,  George 130 

Burleigh,  Clarence  Blendoii 815 


Damon,  Fannie  L.  B  .  < 811 

Dana,  Olive  E 825 

Daveis,  Charles  Stewart 842 

Davis,  Augusta  Cordelia 563 

Davis,  Edgar  Foster 778 

Davis,  Parker  Bradbury  821 


VI 


TABLE  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 


PAGE 


Deane,  Samuel 

Deering,  Nathaniel 32 

Dela,  Lewis 260 

De  Lande,  Angelique 812 


FACE 

Hall,  Annie  A.  Nichols 362 

Hall,  Orran  Bensselaer. ........  625 

Hnmlin,  Mary  A...    663 

Hanscom,  Bufns.. 64 

Dinsmore,  Boadicea  A.  T 505|Hawkes,  William  Whitney 813 

Dole,  Caroline  Fletcher........  205  Hawthorne,  Nathaniel 105 

Dole,  Daniel 119  |Hayden,  Alma  Pendexter 408 

Dole,  Nathan  Haskell.. . . 785  Jlji>(s,  Olivia  Ftnno  C 647 

Dole,  Phehe  Cohh 581  Baynes,  Francis  Greenleaf 298 

liny  ward,  Silvanus 391 

Hcmans,  Claude  Lewis 231 


Dunbar,  Elizabeth  E 328 

Dunham,  Emma  B.  L.  S 331 

Dunn,  Mattie  Baker.. 708 1  Hemmenway,  Orricy  B.  B 214 

Dunning,  Andrew 185  j  Hill,  David  Hammons 493 

Durgin,  Elizabeth  Converse 676  i  Hill,  Elizabeth  Alexander 835 

Dyer,  Adalena  Frances 816  j  Hill,  MaryMoulton 529 

Dyer,  Elizabeth  Smith 118 1  Hill,  Thomas 211 

I  Hinds,  Amos  Lunt 488 

Earle,  Sarah  Brown fill   Hines,  Marcella  M.  H 387 

Eastman,  Charles  Gamace 846  Hobart,  Caroline  Nichols 364 

Eastman,  Sarah  Elizabeth 6P6  Holbrook,  Annie  Bradbury 624 

Eaton,  Cyrus 23jHolman,  Jonas  Welch 79 

Eaton.  Emily 228 !  Holmes,  Albeit  Harmon 771 

Edwards.  Henry  Band 457  H oman,  Joseph  A shton 194 

Ellis,  Jonathan.... 9  Hough  ton,  Geo.  W.  W 767 

El-well,  Edward  Henry.... 318  j  Howe,  Caroline  Dana 323 

"  Hunt,  Anna  Sargent 758 


Estabrooke,  Horace  M 725 


Hunt,  Ellen  Shaw 774 

Fernald   Benjamin  F. 646  Hunter,  Dora  Bradford 763 


Fisher,  Jonathan i5;Ilsley,  Charles  Parker, 

Flagg,  Edmund 188  j  Irish.  John  Nelson. . . . 

Fogg,  Lydia  Merrow 672 

Foss,  Harriet  N.  F 264 


Foster,  Charles  F 

Foster,  Frederic  F. 


433 
680 

Freeman,  Enoch  W 52 

Freeman,  William 
?,  Joseph 


20 


95 

596 

Jackson,  George  E.  B 420 

Jenkins,  Charles 28 

Jenkins,  Helen  N .  J 554 

Jewell,  Eliza  Ostrander 559 

Jewett,  Cathie  Lyford 784 

Jewett,  Sarah  Orne . . . . , 740 


136 
476 


Jones,  Clara  Richardson 770 

Jordan,  Edward  A 694 

Jordan,  Israel 814 

Jordan,  Marcia  D.  B 797 

Jordan,  Margaret  E 806 

Keene,  Annie  B.  C 411 

Kellogg,  Elijah 170 


Fuller,  Benjamin  A.  G 232 

Fuller,  Henry  Weld,  Jr 

Fuller,  Melville  WTeston .... 

Gardner,  Arvilla  B.  E 502 

Gardner,  Columbia 264 

Gardner,  Plenry  Joseph 243 

Glazier,  William  Belcher 366 

Goddard,  Charles  William 572  _ 

Goddard,  Henry .    27!Kent,' 

Goodwin,  Harriet  E.  B..  59ojKimball,  Sarah  M 480 

Goodwin,  William  Augustus..'.:  284  g!n^  Byron  T 807 

^      "     King,  Henry  Melville ..607 

Koopman,  Harry  Lyman 828 

Laighton,  Oscar 586 

Lamb,  George  W 225 

Leavitt,  Hezekiah  J ...  394 

Leigh  ton,  Jonathan 844 

Leigh  ton,  Mary  Jane 443 


Gould,  Allen  Walton 


710 


Greene,  Clara  Marcelle 702 

Greene.  Moses  Highland 674 

Gregg,  Frances  Anne 


827 
Grover,  Alonzo  Jackson. . ......  384 

Hague,  John  B 167 

Hale,  William 802 


TABLE  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 


VII 


PAGE 

556 
752 


Leonard,  Henry  C 268  Page,  E.  Amie  S. . . . 

Libby,  Annie  Maria 781  Paine,  Selma  Ware 

Libby,  James  Albert 46;  1  Palmer,  Ray 122 

Light,  George  Washington 123  j  Parker,  Edwin  Pond 687 

Lincoln,"  Enoch  30  j  Partridge,  Abbie  Nelsia o 

Lincoln,  Ellen  Fessenden 483  j  Payson,  Edward 174 

Lockhart,  Arthur  John 754  j  Payson,  Edward  Payson 735 

Long,  John  Davis 609  j  Peabody,  Daniel  Webster 549 

Long,  Zadoc 61  j  Peabody,  Ephraim 113 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth..    1)7  Peakes,  Emily  W 716 

Longfellow,  Samuel 244  Pease,  Frank  Herbert 820 

Longley,  Albert  Moore 333 


igj 

•a, 


Lord,  Charles  Chase 652 

Loring,  Charles  Carroll 475 

.    70 


Pennell,  Harriette  G 671 

Penney,  Livy 209 

Perham,  Lemuel,  Jr 13 

Perley,  Enoch 841 


Lovejoy,  Elijah  Parish. 

Lovett,  Nancy  D.  13 460  j  Perry,  Lucy  Moulton 526 

Lowe,  Edwin  Booth 826  Perry,  Trueman  S 339 

Lowell,  Sara  E.  P 712  Phillips,  Franklin  F 787 

Mace,  Frances  Laughton 533  j  gjjjj?  Eeb^cV  Ruth fiS 

Magoun,  George  Frederic 271  P  ke  ^.^mel   iolm      SRI 

::;::::;::;:  III 


Mason,  Ellen  McRoberts 


Plummer,  Edwin  , 317 


May,  John  Walker 372 

Mayo,  Mary  E.  J 706 

Maxim,  Alice  E.  R , 701 

Maxim,  Rose 760 

Maxim,  William  Wallace 683 

McLellan,  Isaac,  Jr 90 

McNamara,  William  F 799 

Mead,  Jane  Maria 219 

Mellen,  Frederic 107 

Mellen,  Grenville 56 

Mellen,  Prentiss 12 

Merrill,  Helen  Maude 838 

Merrill,  Isadore  E  P 792 

Miller,  James  William 68 

Montgomery,  Charlotte  W 835 

Moore,  Ella  M.  S 732 

Moore,  Hannah  Augusta 347 

Morton,  Eliza  H 788 

Mower,  Sarah  Stephens 150 

Nason,  Emily  Huntington 695 

Nason,  Susan  Smith 369 

Neal,  John 40 

N  eely ,  Henry  Adams 428 

Nelson,  Charles  Alexander 790 

N  o  well,  Edward  Payson 571 

Oaksmith,  Appleton 376 

Osgood,  Frances  Sargent 217 

Osgood,  Kate  Putnam 667 

Owen,  Howard 519 

Owen,  Moses 602, 


Pomeroy,  Rachel. 

Porter,  Charles  H 203 

Prentiss,  Caleb 16 

Prentiss,  Elizabeth  Payson 234 

Prentiss,  Henry 16 

Prentiss,  Mary 53 

Prescott,  Mary  N 631 

Quinby,  Lucy  Ann  274 

Rand,  Edward  A 584 

Randall,  Thomas 842 

Rawson,  Rose  McKenney 693 

Ray,  Fabius  Maximus 576 

Reed,  Mrs.  M.  S , 269 

Reed,  Rebecca  Perley 637 

Remick,  Martha 276 

Rexdale,  Robert , 823 

Rice,  Walter  Allen 811 

Rich,  Caroline  W.  D, 357 

Rich,  Thomas  Hill 414 

Richards,  Laura  E , 749 

Richardson,  Charles  F 776 

Kicker,  Joseph 845 

Rideout,  Edward  L 656 

Ripley,  Henry  W 382 

Ripley,  Thomas  Baldwin. .......    47 

Roberts,  Charles  Phelps 281 

Robinson,  Edward  Breck 272 

Rogers,  John  C 507 

Rowe,  Charles  Henry 747 

Rowe,  Henrietta  Gould 497 


VIII 


TABLE  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 


Howe,  Mary  Hathaway..  392 

Savage,  Minot  J 650 

Savage,  William  H 477 

Sawyer,  Nathaniel  L 192 

Sawyer,  Walter  Leon 836 

Seabury,  Samuel  Dorrance 578 

Seavey,  Sarah  13.  W 186 

Sewall,  Harriet  Winslow 246 

Sewall,  Stephen 

Sewall,  William  Bartlett. 


Tolman,  Albert  Walter 839 

Tourtillotte,  Lillian  Adele 840 

Tourtillotte,  Mary  E.  B 464 

Tracy,  Harriet  T 223 

Traf  ton,  Mark I 143 

True,  Eliza  S 8 

Tukey,  Ruf us 139 

Twitchell,  Albert  S 643 

Twitchell,  Virgil  V 665 

Upham,  Charles  Wood 179 

Upham,  James 181 

Upham,  Thomas  Cogswell 54 

Upton,  Charles  Horace 161 

Vaimah,  Letitia  C 805 

,  Vining,  Lucy  I.  S 304 

Smith,  Seba 37  !  Vose,  Richard  Hampton 71 


8 

19 
Shores,  Clara  M.  A.  T 345 


Simpson,  Corelli  C.  W. . . 


5(59 


Skillings,  Robert  Franklin 262 

Slemons,  Abbie 435 

Smith,  Anna  Crosman 839 

Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes 109 


Smith,  Samuel  F 119 

Smith,  Thomas 1 

Snow,  George  W 125 

Soule,  Charles  .  . . . 43 

.Soule,  John  B.  L 183 


Vose,  Z.  Pope 


528 


Wadsworth,  Llewellyn  A 620 

Ward  well,  Virgil  Parris 589 

Warren.  Israel  Perkins 175 


Southgate,  John  B 487  i  Warren,  Mary  E 771 

Spaulding,  Sarah  W 500  i  Warren,  Salome  R 409 

Spear,  David  Dana 622  j  Wales,  Clara  Ella 794 

Spearing,  Annie  Bell 818  Walter,  William  Bicker 59 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott 511  j  Washburn,  Dexter  Caiieton ....  834 

Stacy,  Arthur  Merrill 817  Washburn,  Israel,  Jr 173 

Stanwood,  Franklin 782  Wasson,  David  Atwood 295 

Starrett,  Lewis  F 681  Watson,  Stephen  Marion 542 

Starrett,  Susan  C. 774  Watson,  William  Franklin 832 

Stephens,  Ann  S.  W 137  j  Waterston,  Robert  Cassie 156 

Stevens,  Harriet  M.  A 297 !  Weare,  W.  K 405 

Stevens,  Sarah  J.  D 621)   Webb,  Emily  Page 421 

Sticknev,  Charles  Oren 635  Webster, J)aniel . ._. 17 


Stockbridge,  George  H. 


791 


Stoddard,  Ada  C.  H 800 

Storer,  William  II 146 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher 152 

Strattou,  Ella  Ilincs 731 

Sturgis,  Nathaniel  Gorham 149 

Stnrtevant,  Mrs.  S.  M 522 

Sylvester,  Herbert  M 727 

Swan,  Caroline  D 657 

Sweat,  Margaret  J.  M 399 

Talbot,  George  Foster 239 

Talbot,  Henry  Laurens 465 

Tappan,  Daniel  Dana.   51 

Thatcher,  Benjamin  Bussey . . . .  127 

Thaxter,  Celia 517 

Thomas,  Edward  Henry 151 

Thomas,  John  Widgery 840 

Thompson,  Edward  W. 699 

Thornton,  Eliza  Gookin 44 

Thwing,  Edward  P 445 

Thwing,  Susan  M.  W , 501 


Weston,  Edward  Payson. 


235 


Wheeler,  Amos  Dean 72 

Whitcomb,  Xellie  Wade 831 

White,  Hanson  Derby 342 

White,  John  Staples 587 

Whitman,  Iza  Gertrude 748 

Williams,  Corelli  C 569 

Williams,  John  Dix 678 

Williamson,  Julia  May 821 

Williamson,  Thankful  P.  N 251 

Willis,  N  athaniel  Parker 81 

Wilson,  Granville  P 561 

Wilson,  Thomas  E 634 

Wood,  John  Bodwell 367 


191 
795 


Woodbridge,  Miss  A. 
Woodbury,  Ida  Sumner  Vose. 

Woodward,  Edward  P 640 

Woolson,  Abba  Goold 598 

Worster,  Helen  L.  W 783 

Yeaton,  Nancy  Barrows 360 

Young,  Oscar  E..... 830 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Rev.  Thomas  Smith,  the  first  regularly  ordained  minister  in  Maine,  east  of  Wells,  was 
born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  March  10,  1702,  the  eldest  of  a  large  family  of  children.  His  father, 
an  Indian  Agent,  died  in  Saco,  Feb.  19,'1742.  Thomas  entered  Harvard  College  in  1716,  at 
the  age  of  14,  and  took  his  first  degree  in  1720.  He  began  to  preach  April  19,  1722.  In 
June,  1725,  he  came  for  the  first  time  to  Falmouth— now  Portland— then  the  extreme  set 
tlement  in  Maine,  and  later  the  people  invited  him  to  become  their  pastor.  He  continued 
in  the  ministry  for  the  unusual  period  of  sixty-eight  years,  two  months  arid  seventeen 
days,  and  officiated  in  a  portion  of  the  services  of  the  Sabbath  till  within  two  years  of  his 
death,  which  took  place  on  the  25th  of  May,  1795,  having  just  entered  upon  his  ninety- 
fourth  year.  We  give,  as  a  literary  curiosity,  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Smith's  poetry,  which  is 
believed  to  be  the  only  indication  of  his  dalliance  with  the  Muses. 


THE  SEXTON'S  APPOINTMENT. 
EDWARD  SAWYER,  SUCCESSOR  TO  FATHER  GOODING,  DEC.  31,  1759. 

O'er  Arthur's  head  they  have  me  dubbed 

In  Falmouth  town  chief  Sexton, 
And  I  around  the  Church  must  go, 

To  gather  contribution. 

To  dig  graves  for  dead  folks  also, 

Is  deemed  to  be  my  office; 
And  ring  the  bell  to  church  to  call, — 

And  other  week  days'  service. 

To  keep  and  sweep  the  meeting-house, 

Both  I  and  my  meet-helper; 
And  when  wind  blows,  to  shut  the  doors, 

And  get  baptismal  water. 

Good  neighbors'  all,  rejoice  with  me 

In  this  my  high  promotion; 
And  as  I  do  make  shoes  also, 

Pray  let  me  have  your  custom. 


VIII 


TABLE  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 


Howe,  Mary  Hathaway..  392 

Savage,  Minot  J 650 

Savage,  William  H 477 

Sawyer,  Nathaniel  L 102 

Sawyer,  Walter  Leon 836 

Seabury,  Samuel  Dorrance 578 

Seavey,  Sarah  B.  W 186 

Sewall,  Harriet  Winslow 246 

Sewall,  Stephen 6 

Sewall,  William  Bartlett 10 

Shores,  Clara  M.  A.  T 345 

Simpson,  Corelli  C.  W 560 

Skillings,  Robert  Franklin 262 

Slemons,  Abbie 435 

Smith,  Anna  Crosman 830 

Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes 100 

Smith,  Seba 37 

Smith,  Samuel  F 110 

Smith,  Thomas 1 

Snow,  George  W 125 

Soule,  Charles   . 43 

.Soule,  John  B.  L 183 


PAOB 

Tolman,  Albert  Walter 839 

Tourtillotte,  Lillian  Adele 840 

Tourtillotte,  Mary  E.  B 464 

Tracy,  Harriet  T 223 

Trafton,  Mark '. . . . .  143 

True,  Eliza  S 8 

Tukey,  Kufus 139 

Twitch  ell,  Albert  S 643 

Twitchell,  Virgil  V 665 

Upham,  Charles  Wood 179 

Upham,  James 181 

Upham,  Thomas  Cogswell 54 

Upton,  Charles  Horace 161 

Yannah,  Letitia  C 805 

Vining,  Lucy  I.  S 304 

Vose,  Richard  Hampton 71 

Vose,  Z.  Pope 528 

Wadsworth,  Llewellyn  A ,   620 

Ward  well,  Virgil  Parris 589 

Warren.  Israel  Perkins 175 


Southgate,  John  B 487  1  Warren,  Mary  E 771 

Spaulding,  Sarah  W 500 !  Warren,  Salome  R 409 

Spear,  David  Dana 622  j  Wales,  Clara  Ella 704 

Spearing,  Annie  Bell 818  Walter,  William  Bicker 59 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott 511  \  Washburn,  Dexter  Carleton ....  834 

Stacy,  Arthur  Merrill 817  j  Washburn,  Israel,  Jr 173 

Stanwood,  Franklin 782  Wasson,  David  Atwood 205 

Starrett,  Lewis  F 681  Watson,  Stephen  Marion 542 

StaiTctt,  Susan  C 774  Watson,  William  Franklin 832 

Stephens,  Ann  -S.  W 137  j  Waterston,  Robert  Cassie 156 

Stevens,  Harriet  M.  A 207 !  Weare,  W.  K 405 

Stevens,  Sarah  J.  D 02!)  Webb,  Emily  Page 421 

Sticknev,  Charles  Oren 635 1  Webster, JDaniel . ._. 17 


Stockbridge,  George  H 7i»l 

Stoddard,  Ada  C.  H 800 

Storer,  William  II 146 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher 152 

Stratton,  Ella  Hines 731 

Sturgis,  Nathaniel  Gorham 149 

Stnrtevant,  Mrs.  S.  M 522 

Sylvester,  Herbert  M. 727 

Swan,  Caroline  D 057 

Sweat,  Margaret  J.  M 


Weston,  Edward  Payson. 


235 


309 

Talbot,  George  Foster 230 

Talbot,  Henry  Laurens 465 

Tappan,  Daniel  Dana.   51 

Thatcher,  Benjamin  Bussey . . . .  127 

Thaxter,  Celia 517 

Thomas,  Edward  Henry 151 

Thomas,  John  Widgery 840 


Thompson,  Edward  W 


690 


Thornton,  Eliza  Gookin 44 

Thwing,  Edward  P 445 

Tliwing,  Susan  M.  W , 501 


Wheeler,  Amos  Dean 72 

Whitcomb,  Xellie  Wade 831 

White,  Hanson  Derby 342 

White,  John  Staples 587 

Whitman,  Iza  Gertrude 748 

Williams,  Corelli  C 569 

Williams,  John  Dix 678 

Williamson,  Julia  May 821 

Williamson,  Thankful  P.  N 251 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker 81 

Wilson,  Granville  P 561 

Wilson,  Thomas  E 634 

Wood,  John  Bod  well 367 

Woodbridge,  Miss  A.  D 191 

Woodbury,  Ida  Sumner  Vose. . .  795 

Woodward,  Edward  P 640 

Woolson,  Abba  Goold 598 

Worster,  Helen  L.  W 783 

Yeaton,  Nancy  Barrows 360 

Young,  Oscar  E 830 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Rev.  Thomas  Smith,  the  first  regularly  ordained  minister  in  Maine,  east  of  Wells,  was 
born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  March  10,  1702,  the  eldest  of  a  large  family  of  children.  His  father, 
an  Indian  Agent,  died  in  Saco,  Feb.  19,'1742.  Thomas  entered  Harvard  College  in  1716,  at 
the  age  of  14,  and  took  his  first  degree  in  1720.  He  began  to  preach  April  19,  1722.  In 
June,  1725,  he  came  for  the  first  time  to  Falmouth — now  Portland — then  the  extreme  set 
tlement  in  Maine,  and  later  the  people  invited  him  to  become  their  pastor.  He  continued 
in  the  ministry  for  the  unusual  period  of  sixty-eight  years,  two  months  and  seventeen 
days,  and  officiated  in  a  portion  of  the  services  of  the  Sabbath  till  within  two  years  of  his 
death,  which  took  place  on  the  25th  of  May,  1795,  having  just  entered  upon  his  ninety- 
fourth  year.  We  give,  as  a  literary  curiosity,  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Smith's  poetry,  which  is 
believed  to  be  the  only  indication  of  his  dalliance  with  the  Muses. 


THE  SEXTON'S  APPOINTMENT. 
EDWARD  SAWYER,  SUCCESSOR  TO  FATHER  GOODING,  DEC.  31,  1759. 

O'er  Arthur's  head  they  have  me  clubbed 

In  Falmouth  town  chief  Sexton, 
And  I  around  the  Church  must  go, 

To  gather  contribution. 

To  dig  graves  for  dead  folks  also, 

Is  deemed  to  be  my  office; 
And  ring  the  bell  to  church  to  call, — 

And  other  week  days'  service. 

To  keep  and  sweep  the  meeting-house, 

Both  I  and  my  meet-helper; 
And  when  wind  blows,  to  shut  the  doors, 

And  get  baptismal  water. 

Good  neighbors'  all,  rejoice  with  me 

In  this  my  high  promotion ; 
And  as  I  do  make  shoes  also, 

Pray  let  me  have  your  custom. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Major  General  Joseph  Frye,  the  hero  of  Fort  William  Henry,  and  the  founder  of  Frye  - 
burg,  was  born  in  1711.  and  died  at  Fryeburg  in  1794.  His  nephew,  Judge  Simon  Frye, 
who  died  in  1822,  was  the  first  representative  in  the  General  Court  in  1781,  and  was  many 
years  a  senator  and  Judge  of  the  Court  of, Common  Pleas.  The  General,  who  was  at  the 
siege  of  Louisburg,  from  his  earliest  years  was  a  soldier  of  the  forest,  and  at  the  capitu 
lation  of  Fort  William  Henry  offered  to  go  out  Avith  his  single  regiment  and  drive  back 
the  French  and  Indians.  But  this  privilege  was  denied  him.  His  sufferings  and  escape 
after  having  been  stripped  by  the  Indians,  his  three  days'  run  through  the  forests,  till 
torn  and  haggard  he  reached  Fort  Edward  on  the  Hudson,  are  more  like  romance  than 
veritable  history.  For  these  sufferings,  together  with  his  eminent  services,  the  General 
Court  of  Massachusetts  was  pleased  to  grant  him,  in  1762,  the  larger  part  of  Fryeburg, 
and  his  guide  to  this  region  was  ('apt.  Win.  Stark,  brother  of  the  afterwards  hero  of  Ben- 
nington.  The  great  grandson  of  General  Frye,  Joseph  Frye,  of  Bethel,  has  in  his  posses 
sion  a  tankard  of  solid  silver,  presented  to  the  General  by  the  2d  Battalion  of  General 
Shirley's  Provincial  Regiment,  in  1757,  on  which  is  engraved  the  family  coat  of  arms. 
General  Frye  composed  creditable  poetry.  He  was  also  a  skilful  surveyor  and  practical 
farmer.  One  of  his  worthy  descendants,  William  P.  Frye,  born  in  Lewiston,  Sept.  2d, 
1831,  who  was  elected  United  States  Senator  from  Maine  for  the  term  ending  1883,  to  fill 
the  vacancy  occasioned  by  the  resignation  of  James  G.  Elaine,  has  been  re-elected  for  the 
full  term  of  six  years. 


CALM  CONTENT. 

N  o  more  the  court  nor  martial  themes 
Delight  me  like  the  verdant  groves, 

Whence  I  concert  my  rural  schemes 
'Midst  singing  birds  and  cooing  doves. 

These  sylvan  songsters'  tuneful  lays 
In  innocence  and  free  from  fear, 

So  smoothly  chanted  on  green  sprays, 
Both  soothe  my  mind  and  charm  my  ear. 

I  would  not  change  these  rural  scenes 
For  what  in  court  is  to  be  found, 

Nor  quit  these  groves  and  purling  streams 
For  highest  rank  on  hostile  ground. 

But  thus  retired  I'll  spend  my  days 
In  hymning  praise  to  God  on  high, 

Joining  the  birds'  sweet  warbling  lays 
To  honor  Heavenly  Majesty. 

And  when  from  hence  I  take  my  flight, 
My  sins,  O  God,  through  Christ  forgive, 

And  bring  me  to  the  realms  of  light 
In  endless  peace  and  bliss  to  live. 


SAMUEL  DEANE. 


wmuel 


Samuel  Dearie,  D.  D.,  the  grandson  of  John  Deane,  the  first  of  the  name  in  this  coun 
try,  was  born  in  Dedham,  Mass.,  July  10, 1733.  Mr.  Deane  was  educated  at  Harvard  Col 
lege,  taking  his  first  degree  in  1760,  and  had  the  honor  of.  being  a  contributor  to  the  vol 
ume  of  congratulatory  addresses  presented  to  George  3d,  on  occasion  of  his  accession  to 
the  English  throne  in  1760.  On  the  17th  of  October,1764,he  Avas  ordained  pastor  of  the 
First  Parish  Church,  in  Portland,  and  died  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  ministry,  November 
12.  1814.  His  largest  work  and  the  one  to  which  he  was  most  devoted  is  his  Georgical 
Dictionary,  first  published  in  ]  790.  Mr.  Deane  built  a  house  at  "  South  Green,"  in  Gorham, 
near  Pitch  wood  Hill,  which  he  dignified  in  song.  The  poem  referred  to  appeared  origi 
nally  in  the  Cumberland  Gazette,  March  5,  1795. 


PITCHWOOD  HILL. 

Friendly  Muse,  ascend  thy  car, 
Moving  high  in  liquid  air, 
Teach  thy  vot'ry  how  to  soar 
Heights  he  never  reached  before. 
PITCHWOOD  HILL*  demands  a  song ; 
Let  my  flight  be  bold  and  strong: 
May  the  landscape  bright  and  gay, 
Raise  to  fame  my  rural  lay. 

Queen  of  hills  whose  swelling  top 
Once  was  covered  with  a  crop, 
Of  tow' ring  pines,  in  whose  rich  veins 
Store  of  fiery  gum  remains ! 
Noble  plant  that  does  produce 
Precious  drugs  of  various  use! 
Strangest  wood  that  long  must  rot 
Ere  'tis  to  perfection  brought! 
The  silkworm  does  in  Nymph  a  die, 
Before  she  shines  a  butterfly. 

Peasants  often  hither  fled, 
Dragging  with  them  cart  or  sled, 
To  fleece  away  the  unctions  wood 
They  its  virtues  understood : 
But  blazing  did  it  bring  to  mind 
Hotter  flames  for  thieves  designed  ? 
Oft  it  made  their  ev'nings  gay, 
Changing  darkness  into  day. 
Thus  they  cheered  the  darksome  night, 
Destitute  of  candle  light. 
By  its  flame  the  damsels  spun : 
'  T  was  to  them  another  sun : 
Basking  in  its  light  and  heat, 
They  could  their  tardy  task  complete. 
*In  Gorham. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Pines,  alas !  are  no  more  seen, 

Nor  Poplar,  clad  in  glitt'ring  green. 

Hick'ry,  bowed  to  fatal  steel, 

Helves  the  tool  that  made  it  reel. 

The  mount  has  felt  the  Hoe  and  Plough, 

Other  crops  adorn  it  now. 

There  the  Pea  and  Bean  abide ; 

Wheat  and  Rye,  with  waving  pride, 

Alternate  grow,  and  Indian-corn, 

In  Columbian  regions  born. 

Range  the  border,  there  are  seen 
Trees  of  ever-during  green : 
Fir  trees,  rich  with  balsam  drops, 
Pointing  high  their  tap'ring  tops: 
Pine  and  Spruce,  and  Hemlock  there 
Raise  their  summits  high  in  air. 
Other  trees  are  interwove, 
Adding  beauty  to  the  grove. 
Maple,  sugar-bearing  tree, 
Shady  Beech,  you  there  may  see: 
Tow' ring  Elm  and  spreading  Oak, 
Oxen  loosed  from  the  yoke, 
Kirie,  and  sheep,  and  horses  rove, 
Grazing  in  the  shady  grove. 

Hither  sweaty  swains  repair, 
Seeking  shade,  and  cooler  air; 
Chatting  noontide  hour  away, 
To  ease  the  labors  of  the  day. 
Oft  to  this  sylvan  scene  I've  stole, 
T'  allay  the  tumults  of  my  soul : 
Where  birds  of  various  notes  combine, 
And  raise  my  thoughts  to  themes  divine, 
These  do  their  best  to  chant  his  praise, 
Who  gives  to  them,  and  me,  our  days. 

On  either  side's  a  crystal  pool, 
In  winter  warm,  in  summer  cool. 
Living  springs  that  never  dry, 
Subterranean  veins  supply: 
(Vi'lets  springing  round  the  brink,) 
Adam  knew  no  better  drink. 
Each  supplies  a  gurgling  rill, 
Where  the  flocks  may  drink  their  fill. 


SAMUEL  DEANE. 


Next,  ascend  the  Mountain's  top: 
Gradual  is  the  passage  up : 
No  steeps  to  cause  a  panting  breath. 
See  the  verdant  field  beneath, 
Distant  hills  their  summits  raise, 
And  scattered  flocks  in  pastures  graze ! 
Sit,  and  quaff  the  balmy  breeze, 
From  the  waving  tops  of  trees. 

Down  the  eastern  slope  below, 
See  the  grand  PKESUMPSCOT  flow ! 
Noble  river,  broad  and  deep, 
Majestic,  slow  his  waters  creep ! 
Winding  his  serpentine  way, 
From  SEBACOOK  to  the  sea. 
Fancy,  011  the  verdant  banks, 
Views  the  fairies'  midnight  pranks. 
Naiads,  Tritons,  here  may  seem 
To  wanton  o'er  the  limpid  stream. 

Parted  by  a  narrow  bound, 

From  horrid  wilds  was  Eden's  ground: 

So,  beyond  the  moving  flood, 

Stands  a  dark  and  dismal  wood  : 

Hideous  as  in  days  of  yore, 

When  fell  Indians  walk'cl  the  shore: 

Still  the  haunt  of  Wolf  and  Bear, 

Foxes,  Ravens  sheltered  there : 

For  beasts  of  prey  a  safe  retreat, 

Seldom  trod  by  human  feet. 

Hark!  what  clangor  from  the  South, 

Grates  the  ear  with  sounds  uncouth? 
SACCAKAPPY'S  falling  stream 
Does  like  distant  thunder  seem ; 
Grinds  the  soil  from  either  side, 
Foaming  down  a  hoary  tide. 
Though  it  needed  nothing  more, 
To  complete  the  wild  uproar; 
Various  mills  erected  there, 
With  clatt'ring  din  torment  the  air. 
But  the  village  planted  round, 
Scarcely  hears  the  deaf'ning  sound. 
Habit  heeds  not  constant  screams, 
Eternal  noise  like  quiet  seems. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Lo !  hard  by,  toward  the  West, 
GREEN  HILL  rears  his  lofty  crest; 
By  Rosse's  tenants  half  is  tilled; 
Half  remains  a  wooded  wild. 
See  the  mansion,!  large  and  fair! 
ElizaJ  dwells  in  quiet  there. 
Dispensing  good  to  all  around ; 
Pouring  balm  for  every  wound. 

SOUTH  GIIEEN§  next  salutes  the  sight, 
Refuge  of  persecuted  Wight. 
Banished  from  his  happy  shore 
By  cruel  foes  and  rage  of  War. 
Sacred  height !  may  army  vile 
Ne'er  gain  possession  of  thy  soil; 
Nor  batt'ries  dire  deform  thy  front 
To  break  the  Muses'  fav'rite  haunt. 

Hither  I'll  turn  my  frequent  feet, 
Indulging  contemplation  sweet; 
Seeking  quiet,  sought  in  vain 
In  courts  and  crowds  of  busy  men, 
Subduing  av'rice,  pride  and  will, 
To  fit  me  for  a  happier  Hill. 


Stephen  Sewall.  the  most  accomplished  scholar  of  his  day  in  this  country  was  born  in 
the  ancient  town  of  York,  in  April,  1734,  and  entered  Harvard  at  the  age  of  24. He  grad 
uated  in  1761,  and  was  Professor  of  Hebrew  and  the  Oriental  languages  in  that  University 
from  1765  to  1785.  He  published  a  Hebrew  Grammar  in  1763;  a  Latin  oration  on  the  death 
of  President  Holyoke;  an  oration  on  the  death  of  Professor  \Vinthi^ I  Scripture  account 
of  the  Shekinah,  1774;  a  translation  of  the  first  book  of  loung's  ^ight  Thoughts  into 
Latin  verse  and  several  other  valuable  works.  Among  the  MSS.  which  he  left  is  a  byri- 
ac  and  Chal'dee  Grammar  and  Dictionary,"  and  part  of  a  Greek  and  English  Lexicon,  now 
in  the  College  Library.  He  died  in  1804. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GEORGE  III. 

Of  cypress  deign,  celestial  muse,  to  sing; 
To  plaintive  numbers  tune  the  trembling  string, 
And  soothe  the  gen'ral  grief, — 

The  voice  of  joy's  no  more, 

On  Albion's  saddened  shore; 

tNow  the  seat  of  William  Tyng,  Esq. 

jThe  late  Madam  Ross. 

§The  residence  of  the  author  during  the  Revolutionary  War. 


STEPHEN  SEW  ALL. 


He's  gone — Britannia's  royal  chief! 
From  the  north  to  southern  pole, 

From  the  farthest  Orient  floods 

To  Hesperia's  savage  woods, 
Swelling  tides  of  sorrow  roll: 

Nor  wonder;  all  an  ample  share 
Partook,  through  boundless  climes,  of  his  paternal  care. 

Whate'er  the  muses'  mournful  lays  can  do, 
And  more,  blest  shade !  to  thy  loved  name  is  due. 
Under  thy  gentle  sway, 

Religion,  heaven-born  fair, 
In  her  own  native  air, 
Refulgent  shone  in  golden  day; 
Virtue,  science,  liberty, 

Blooming  sisters,  wreathed  with  bays, 
Grateful  sung  their  patron's  praise: 
Commerce,  o'er  the  broad-backed  sea, 

Extending  far  on  floating  isles, 
Imported  India's  wealth,  and  rich  Peruvian  spoils. 

Let  Rome  her  Julius  and  Octavius  boast; 
What  both  at  Rome?  George  was  on  Albion's  coast. 
An  olive  wreath  his  brow, 
Majestic  evermore; 
Unless  by  hostile  power 
Long  urged,  and  then  the  laurel  bough, 
Faithful  bards  in  epic  verse, 

Vic' tries  more  than  Julius  won, 
And  exploits  before  undone, 
George,  the  hero,  shall  rehearse, 

While  softer  notes  each  tuneful  swain 
Shall  breathe  from  oaten  pipe,  of  George's  peaceful  reign. 

But,  ah !  while  on  the  glorious  past  we  dwell, 
Enrapt  in  silken  thought,  our  bosoms  swell, 

With  pleasing  ecstacy, 

Forgetful  of  our  woe, 

Shall  tears  forbear  to  flow? 

Or  cease  to  heave  the  deep-fetched  sigh? 

Flow,  ye  tears,  forever  stream; 

Sighs  to  whisp'ring  winds  complain; 

Winds,  the  sadly-solemn  strain 

Waft,  and  tell  the  mournful  theme. 

But  what,  alas !  can  tears  or  sighs? 
What  could,  has  ceased  to  be ;  the  spirit  mounts  the  skies. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


With  Sympathetic  woe,  thy  noontide  ray, 
Phoebus,  suspend;  ye  clouds,  obscure  the  day; 
Her  face  let  Cynthia  veil, 
Thick  darkness  spread  her  wing, 
And  the  night-raven  sing, 
While  Britons  their  sad  fate  bewail. 
Sacred  flood,  whose  crystal  tide, 
Gently  gliding,  rolls  adown 
Fast  by,  once,  the  blissful  town, 
Thames!  with  pious  tears  supply' d, 
Swell  high,  and  tell  the  vocal  shore 
And  jovial  mariner,  their  glory's  now  no  more. 

But  stop,  my  plaintive  muse;  lo!  from  the  skies 
What  sudden  radiance  strikes  our  wond'ring  eyes? 

As  had  the  lab' ring  sun, 

From  black  and  dismal  shades, 

Which  not  a  ray  pervades, 

Emerging,  with  new  lustre  shone. 

In  the  forehead  of  the  east,    • 

See  the  gilded  morning  star, 

Of  glad  day  the  harbinger  : 

Sighing,  now,  and  tears  are  ceased  : 
Still  George  survives ;  his  virtues  shine 
In  him,  who  sprung  alike  from  Brunswick's  royal  line. 


^  mv  j». 

This  authoress  Avas  probably  born  in  Portland,  about  1750.  A  volume  from  her  pen  en 
titled  "  The  Amaranth;  Being  a  Collection  of  Original  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  Calcu 
lated  to  Amuse  the  Minds  of  Youth  without  Corrupting  their  Morals,"  was  published  in 
Portland  in  1811  J.  M'KoAvn,  printer.  Tn  her  modest  preface  she  says,—  Most  of  the 
pieces  included  in  this  volume  were  written  at  an  early  period  of  life,  Avhen  airy  fancy 
is  wont  to  transport  the  youthful  mind  beyond  the  bounds  of  sober  reason."  As  a  lite 
rary  curiosity,  we  present  a  poem  from  this  antiquated  book,  kindly  loaned  us  by  Prof. 
Geo.  T.  Little,  the  Librarian  of  BoAvdoin  College. 

TO  MISS  HAYDEN. 

My  friend,  you  say  you  long  have  sought  in  vain 
A  prize  you,  now,  are  hopeless  to  obtain ; 
For  sure  no  mortal  can  on  earth  possess 
Peace  unalloyed,  content  and  happiness. 

Stay,  Mary,  stay,  nor  hastily  give  o'er: 

Why  thus  despair?    Still  try  one  measure  more : 

Within  the  deep  recesses  of  a  wood, 

Just  on  the  brink  of  Androscoggin's  flood, 


JONATHAN  ELLIS. 


There  stands  a  cot,  humble,  obscure  and  mean; 
No  pomp  without,  no  ornaments  within: 
Yet  there  Almira  finds  content  and  peace, 
Envy  and  hate  have  there  no  hiding  place. 

Yes,  there  she  lives,  forgotten  and  unknown, 
Peace  her  companion,  happiness  her  own; 
She's  not  one  sigh,  one  wish  for  wealth  or  state, 
Content  t'  admire  the  truly  good  and  great. 

Come,  Mary,  come,  and  with  Almira  share 
Her  heart,  her  solitude,  and  homely  fare ; 
But  learn,  dear  girl,  this  one  great  truth  to  know, 
FRIENDSHIP  AND  HEALTH  ABE  HAPPINESS  BELOW. 


Rev.  Jonathan  Ellis  was  born  in  Franklin,  Connecticut,  April  llth,  1762.  His  father, 
Rev.  John  Ellis,  was  a  chaplain  in  the  Revolutionary  army.  The  subject  of  our  sketch 
graduated  at  Yale  in  1786,  and  was  ordained  over  the  church  and  society  of  the  First 
Parish,  Topsham,  Sept.  16,  1789,  and  was  the  first  settled  minister  in  Topsham,  where  he 
remained  ten  years  as  pastor,  and  in  various  capacities  lived  in  town  until  1811.  He  was 
a  member  of  the  original  boai'd  of  overseers  of  Bowdoin  College,  the  first  secretary  of 
this  boai'd,  and  a  member  of  the  examining  committee,  until  he  resigned  those  offices  in 
1811.  He  was  not  only  a  fine  writer  and  scholar,  but  a  superior  Latin  scholar,  and  wrote 
an  historical  sketch  of  Topsham,  which  was  printed  in  the  collections  of  the  Massachu 
setts  Historical  Society.  In  Feb.,  1800,  he  delivered  an  eulogy  on  Washington  in  Tops- 
ham,  from  which  we  make  the  following  selection: 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  EULOGY  ON  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

Ye  who  have  often  heard  his  praises  sung, 
In  strains  sublime,  by  many  an  abler  tongue, 
Now  hear  my  death- taught  muse  her  grief  impart, 
A  grief  deep  felt  by  every  patriot  heart. 

At  your  request  I  tremblingly  essay 
To  follow  where  so  many  lead  the  way, 
Columbia  mourns;  her  Washington's  no  more 
To  bless  with  counsel  or  protect  her  shore. 
Anguish  unfeign'd  now  prompts  the  willing  sigh, 
Now  tears  spontaneous  tremble  in  the  eye. 

Ages  to  come  shall  know  the  pain  we  feel; 
A  thousand  bards  our  cause  of  grief  reveal; 
Ages  to  come  while  virtue  has  a  friend, 
Or  all  that  gives  renown  011  earth  shall  end, 
She'll  annual  plaints  and  annual  tributes  bring, 
Rehearse  his  deeds,  our  Country's  glory  sing; 
From  the  fair  rising  to  the  setting  sun, 
Talk  o'er  his  worth,  and  mourn  for  Washington, 


10  THE  POETS  OFJfAINE. 

Ah,  who  his  worth  is  able  to  express, 
Whom  heaven  bestowed  to  save  us  and  to  bless? 
Had  I  an  hundred  mouths,  an  hundred  tongues, 
Organs  of  steel,  and  adamantine  lungs, 
Impossible  his  deeds  of  worth  to  name, 
Which  place  him  peerless  on  the  roll  of  fame. 


him  to  membership  in  the  highest  literary  society  of  the  college  -te  et«  Ksn 

pa.    He  came  to  Saco  in  1803,  and  was  elected  to  the  Senate  of^aSaSSette^Sf 
Wlett  was  the  man  who  brought  an  action  against  Nathaniel  Willis  of  the  >a*/e™  !JJ' 
qua  for  libel,  and  imprisoned  him  and  recovered  damages.    He  left  Ma m [about  1810 
lived  afterwards  011  his  desultory  literary  labors 


"  'Tis  done!  the  fatal  stroke  is  given 
And  Bartlett's  fled  to  hell  or  heaven  •' 
His  friends  approve  it,  and  his  foes  applaud 
Yet  he  will  have  the  verdict  of  his  God." 


LAFAYETTE. 

Hail,  patriot,  statesman,  hero,  sage ! 
Hail,  freedom's  friend!  hail,  Gallia's  son- 

Whose  laurels  greener  grew  in  age, 
Plucked  by  the  side  of  WASHINGTON  ! 

Hail,  champion  in  a  holy  cause, 
When  hostile  bands  our  shores  beset: 

Whose  valor  bade  th'  oppressor  pause- 
Hail,  hoary  warrior,  LAFAYETTE  I 

Forever  welcome  to  the  shore, 

A  youthful  chief,  thy  footsteps  pressed; 
And  dauntless,  want  and  peril  bore, 

Till  VENI,  Vici*  decked  thy  crest! 
Forever  welcome,  great  and  good! 

Till  freedom's  sun  on  earth  shall  set, 
The  still  small  voice  of  gratitude 

Shall  bless  the  name  of  LAFAYETTE  ! 

*I  came  and  conquered. 


JOSEPH  BAETLETT.  11 


What  monarch  of  despotic  power, 

Who  fain  would  crush  the  free  born  brave 
Whose  glory  gilds  a  tottering  tower, 

Himself  the  subject  and  a  slave; 
Would  not,  to  view  a  nation's  eyes 

With  joyous  drops  unbidden  wet, 
The  pageantry  of  pride  despise, 

And  grasp  the  hand  of— LAFAYETTE. 

Whene'er  the  lips  of  youth  inquire 

The  path  to  virtue,  honor,  fame — 
To  glory's  temple  proud  aspire, 

While  warmly  glows  the  ardent  flame ; 
The  voice  of  age  shall  fearless  tell 

What  perils  oft  its  path  beset, 
And  prompt  them  onward  by  the  spell 

That  urged  the  soul  of  LAFAYETTE. 

And  when  the  shades  of  death  shall  close 

Forever  round  the  hallowed  head, 
We'll  seek  the  peace  of  thy  repose, 

By  final  love  and  duty  led; 
And  hearts  that  beat  in  bosoms  free, 

(Gems  by  unerring  wisdom  set,) 
The  living  monument  shall  be 

Of  Freedom's  champion,  LAFAYETTE. 


PHYSIOGNOMY. 

AN  EXTRACT. 

When  darkness  roll'd  upon  unmeasur'd  space, 
And  worlds  lay  slumbering  without  form  or  place, 
When  mighty  Chaos  reign' d  upon  the  deep, 
All  was  disorder,  nature  wrapt  in  sleep; 
God  said,  let  light  arise,  and  all'  was  light, 
And  nature's  morn  succeeded  nature's  night; 
Worlds,  countless  worlds,  arose  by  God's  command, 
And  man,  his  image,  fashioned  by  his  hand. 
God  shows  the  force  of  his  creative  power, 
From  reasoning  man,  to  ev'ry  tree  and  flower; 
The  hand  of  nature  paints,  on  every  part 
Of  every  face,  the  feelings  of  the  heart; 
Birds,  Fishes,  Serpents,  Insects,  all  proclaim 
Their  diff'rent  uses,  qualities,  and  name, 


12  TEE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

"The  Royal  Lion,  haughty  beast  of  prey, 

Who  prowls  by  night  and  slums  the  light  of  day, 

Undaunted  treads  the  trackless  desert  o'er, 

And  rules  supreme  on  Afric's  burning  shore; 

His  voice  of  thunder,  and  his  savage  eyes, 

Join'd  with  his  strength,  and  majesty  of  size, 

Declare  his  courage,  confidence  and  pride, 

And  mark  him  sov'reign  of  the  forest  wide. 

***** 

"The  Eagle's  sight  the  rays  of  sun  defies; 

He  drinks  the  lightning  with  his  piercing  eyes; 

His  talons  brass,  his  wings  of  strongest  form, 

He  soars  on  high,  regardless  of  the  storm, 

Laughs  at  the  thunder,  which  he  hears  afar, 

And  shines  in  air,  of  Liberty  the  Star; 

So  strongly  mark'd  by  energy  divine, 

Such  courage,  strength  in  every  part  combine, 

That  freedom's  Sons,  whene'er  their  Flag's  unfurled, 

Display  his  figure  to  th'  admiring  world. 

O  gracious  God,  thou  Deity  of  Love, 

O  smile  benignant,  from  thy  throne  above, 

Hear,  O  hear,  thy  suppliant's  earnest  prayer, 

May/reedow's  standard  be  thy  favorite  care. 

Shield  it  from  harm,  if  e'er  again  display 'd 

To  guard  our  Vineyards,  or  protect  our  Trade. 

Should  hostile  Powers  our  peaceful  shores  invade, 

Columbia's  sons  will  never  be  dismayed. 

Fearless  of  death,  refuse  to  pay  or  fly, 

Look  to  the  Eagle,  bravely  dare  to  die." 


Prentiss  Mellen  LL.  D.,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Maine,  and  the  father 
f  Grenville  and  Frederick  Mellen  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  was  born  at 
Sterling,  Mass.,  Oct.,  1764.  He  graduated  at  Harvard,  1784,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
m  Taunton  beginning  practice  in  his  native  town.  In  1792  he  removed  to  Biddeford. 
He  practiced  m  every  county  in  the  District  of  Maine,  and  at  the  head  of  its  highest  judi 
cial  tribunal.  In  1817  he  was  chosen  a  senator  in  Congress  from  Massachusetts:  in  1820 
Maine  having  become  a  separate  State,  he  was  appointed  Chief  Justice  of  its  Supreme 
Court.  Judge  Mellen  died  in  1840.  He  is  remembered  as  a  gentleman  of  eminent  social 
qualities,  of  a  cheerful,  gay  temperament,  abounding  in  wit  and  anecdote  and  an  orna 
ment  to  society. 

TEARS. 
Crystals,  where  are  your  recesses, 

Where  the  home  of  your  repose, 
When  the  world  around  caresses, 

And  the  heart  no  sorrow  knows? 


LEMUEL  PERHAM.  ,  13 


Then  the  eye  is  bright  and  gleaming 

As  a  summer's  smiling  day; 
Joy  and  peace  may  there  be  beaming, 

Still  uninfluenced  by  your  sway. 

Why  should  sudden  bursts  of  feeling, 

Why  should  transport,  flood  the  eyes? 
Why,  when  from  your  fountain  stealing, 

Do  ye  flow  'micl  rapture's  sighs? 
Where's  the  fount,  whence  peace  and  anguish 

Call  ye  forth  for  their  relief? 
Causing  agony  to  languish 

Into  deep  and  dark'ning  grief? 

Crystal  tears,  so  freshly  pouring, 

Prompt  their  duty  to  perform, 
Tell  when  gentle  gales  are  blowing 

Round  the  heart,  and  when  the  storm ; 
Messengers  of  gladness,  rushing, 

Bearing  orders  from  the  heart; 
Showering  cheeks,  in  beauty  blushing, 

Laughing  at  the  painter's  art. 

Messengers  of  deepest  sorrow, 

From  the  seat  of  cruel  pain; 
Hoping  still  relief  to-morrow, 

While  hope's  promises  are  vain! 
Messengers  of  tender  passion, 

Melting  sympathy  and  love, 
Hearts  o'erflowing  with  compassion, 

Warmed  with  influence  from  above. 

Messengers  from  hearts  despairing, 

And  from  Conscience,  in  alarm, 
Its  frightful  catalogue  preparing, 

And  no  aid  from  mortal  arm; 
Messengers  from  hearts  repenting, 

Washing  out  the  stains  of  sin ; 
Mercy  smiling — Heaven  assenting, 

Peace  around  and  peace  within ! 


Born  in  Fannington,  Oct.  7th,  1764,  and  son  of  an  old  Revolutionary  soldier.  He  was 
a  superior  mathematician,  a  skilled  land  surveyor,  and  it  has  been  commonly  understood 
that  he  ran  the  west  line  of  the  town  tract,  a  most  arduous  undertaking,  since  the  line 
runs  over  Mts.  Abraham,  Sugar-loaf,  and  Bigelow.  Mr.  Perham  was  a  fine  musician  al 
so  and  a  poet  of  more  than  local  fame.  One  of  his  sons  is  a  druggist  at  Anoka,  Minn., 
and  another  a  civil  engineer,  who  assisted  in  building  the  dry  dock  at  Cliarlestown,  Mass., 
and  that  at  Gosport,  Va.  The  subject  of  this  sketch  died  Feb.  28th,  1841. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


TEMPERANCE. 

AN   EXTRACT. 

Fair  Temp'rance,  thou  Goddess,  unspeakable  worth, 

Angelic  thy  nature,  celestial  thy  birth  ; 

With  prime  adoration  to  Heaven's  blest  king 

Subordinate  praises  to  thee  will  we  bring. 

We'll  pray  to  the  Father  for  sake  of  his  Son, 

To  prosper  thy  cause,  for  thy  cause  is  his  own, 

And  hasten  millennial  glory  and  bliss, 

When  Pagan  and  Jew  and  all  nations  are  his  ; 

When  Bacchus's  worshipers  will  not  molest, 

No  drunken  intruder  disturbing  our  rest, 

No  riotous  tumult  performed  by  thy  foes, 

Nor  nightly  obtruder  to  break  our  repose, 

We'll  laud  thee  with  sonnets  inspired  by  the  Muse, 

In  thy  celebration  we'll  symphony  use  ; 

Our  hearts  and  glad  voices  volition  devotes, 

While  musical  instruments  warble  the  notes. 

Thy  retinue's  tenderness,  mildness  and  love, 

And  harmlessness  equal  to  that  of  the  Dove, 

With  wisdom  and  sanctity,  firmness  and  health, 

Frugality,  industry,  handmaids  of  wealth  { 

Benevolence,  rectitude,  patterns  for  youth  ; 

Peace,  modesty,  harmony,  prudence  and  truth  ; 

Thy  blessings,  O  Temp'rance,  so  vast  an  amount, 

That  time's  insufficient  their  numbers  to  count. 

*  *  *  * 

Ye  Bards  of  both  sexes,  come  lend  us  a  strain, 

To  celebrate  Temp'rance  and  usher  her  reign; 

Nor  let  your  dumb  harps  on  the  willows  recline, 

But  tune  them  to  temperance  whose  cause  is  divine. 

Poetical  talent  has  been  much  abused, 

Made  off  'rings  to  vices,  to  virtue  refused; 

Has  cherished  Intemperance,  debauch'ry  and  strife, 

Blood-shedding  and  carnage,  destroying  man's  life;' 

The  worship  of  Idols  in  heathenish  lands, 

The  images  mounted  by  impotent  hands. 

Retrieve  the  ill  uses  that  Poets  have  made, 

And  offer  to  Temperance  and  virtue  your  aid. 

Ye  females,  attend  to  the  Muse  in  the  dales, 

And  render  a  tribute  as  well  as  the  males; 

Or  from  Mount  Parnassus  or  mountain  called  Blue,* 

Invoke  the  chaste  Muse,  and  her  dictates  pursue. 

•An  eminence  in  the  vicinity  of  Farmington  called  Blue  Mountain. 


JONATHAN  FISHER.  15 


jjcnwthan  <iji$her. 


Rev.  Jonathan  Fisher,  "minister  of  the  Gospel  in  Bine  Hill,  Me.,"  from  1796  to  1837, 
was  born  Oct.  7th,  1768,  and  after  attaining  "his  time"  taught  the  town  school  of  Castme  for 
quite  a  period.  Among  the  pupils  that  he  fitted  for  Bowdoin  College  was  Hon.  William 
Abbott  so  lone  identified  Avith  the  interests  of  Bangor,  and  one  of  her  most  prominent 
citizens'.  "Parson"  Fisher  wrote  quite  extensively  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  was  au 
thor  of  a  book  entitled  "The  Animals  of  the  Bible,"  illustrated  by  wood  cuts  made  by 
himself  with  a  pen-knife.  This  work  had  a  quaint  Prologue,  in  which,  speaking  of  his 
fellow  men,  he  hoped  his  humble  work  might 

"Break  his  attachment  to  this  earthly  clod, 

And  turn  his  soul  to  virtue  and  to  God." 

This  volume,  now  very  rare,  was  printed  by  A.  Shirley,  Portland,  1827.    Mr.  Fisher  also 
excelled  as  a  portrait  painter.    He  died  in  1847. 

THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALE. 

There  is  a  flower,  which  here  below 

In  nature's  garden  will  not  grow, 

But  in  the  soil  which  grace  prepares, 

And  which  a  heavenly  influence  shares, 

It  springs  beside  a  sister  flower, 

Of  stature  low,  but  fragrant  power, 

Which  on  its  breast  in  figures  plain 

Displays  a  heart  that's  rent  in  twain. 

This  lowly  floweret  oft  appears 

With  dew-drops  hung,  like  drops  of  tears, 

And  seems  to  say,  with  modest  mien, 

These  are  the  tears  which  fall  for  sin. 

Where  once  the  sun-flower  stood  in  pride, 

Was  rooted  up,  and  fell,  and  died, 

With  fragrance  sweet  as  morning  rose, 

This  flower  amidst  the  ruin  grows. 

Not  on  the  hill,  which  rises  high, 

But  where  the  lowly  vallies  lie, 

This  lonely  plant  with  bowing  head, 

Blooms  half  concealed  amidst  the  shade. 

Let  man  but  try  its  healing  power, 

And  in  his  bosom  hide  the  flower, 

Its  sweet  perfume  will  rise  to  heaven, 

And  God  will  speak  his  sins  forgiven. 

When  God's  own  Son  from  heaven  came  down, 

He  laid  aside  his  starry  crown, 

And,  as  our  pattern,  daily  wore 

On  his  own  breast  this  lowly  flower, 

Peace  to  the  mourning  soul  that  minds 

Heaven's  faithful  marks,  and  seeks  and  finds 

This  plant,  which  can  such  sweets  exhale, 

It  is  the  Lily  of  the  Vale, 


16  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


jjrentfaz. 


Deacon  Caleb  Prentiss,  son  of  Rev.  Caleb  Prentiss,  of  Reading,  Mass.,  was  born  Nov. 
22,  1771,  and  moved  from  Gorham,  Maine,  to  South  Paris  about  the  beginning  of  the  pres 
ent  century.  There  he  commenced  keeping  store;  was  the  first  postmaster,  and  a  leader 
in  the  church.  He  afterwards  purchased  land  and  engaged  in  agriculture.  He  was  a  man 
of  marked  ability,  and  a  contributor  to  the  press,  his  services  often  being  called  into  re 
quisition  at  public  meetings  to  furnish  an  ode  or  hymn, as  the  occasion  demanded.  He 
married  Mary  Webber  Morgan,  Jan.  16,  1798. 


DECEMBER  DAYS. 

Ruthless  winter's  rude  career 
Comes  to  close  the  parting  year; 
Fleecy  flakes  of  snow  descend, 
Boreal  winds  the  welkin  rend. 
Reflect,  oh  man !  and  well  remember 
That  dull  old  age  is  dark  December; 
For  soon  the  year  of  life  is  gone, 
When  hoary  hairs  like  snow  come  on. 


knrg  jjmttiss. 


Born  in  1779,  the  son  of  Rev.  Caleb  Prentiss  and  Pamelia  (Mellen)  Prentiss,  of  Reading, 
Mass.  He  married  Mary,  daughter  of  Dr.  John  Hart,  of  Reading,  and  came  to  Paris,  Me., 
quite  early,  though  not  reckoned  by  the  town  historian  as  among  the  first  settlers.  He 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  early  local  papers,  and  a  forcible  writer.  He  occasion 
ally  wrote  poetry,  which  evidently  Avas  a  strong  family  trait.  He  died  in  Paris,  in  1843. 
We  give  an  extract  from  one  of  his  poems,  which  appeared  in  the  first  issue  of  the  Ox 
ford  Observer. 

POWER  OF  THE  PRESS. 

The  Press,  with  a  majesty  boundless  as  sea, 
And  a  voice  loud  as  thunder,  bids  Oxford  be  free ; 
With  a  stride  from  the  ocean  she  measures  the  plain, 
And  swears  on  the  mountains  of  Oxford  she'll  reign. 
She  seeks  a  retreat  in  the  land  of  the  brave; 
She  shrinks  at  the  tyrant,  and  weeps  o'er  the  slave. 
The  Land  of  the  Hills  to  the  brave  is  a  home, 
For  the  hills  of  the  Swiss  to  their  foes  are  a  tomb. 
Fair  daughter  of  heaven,  O  virtue,  inspire 
The  soul  of  the  Press  with  thine  own  sacred  fire ! 
If  on  the  escutcheon  of  Oxford  remain 
•A  vice  or  a  crime  to  encrimson  her  name, 
The  foul  crimson  blot  in  oblivion  wipe, 
By  the  flash  of  thy  frown  or  the  lash  of  thy  type. 
E'en  hallowed  on  earth;  O  Justice,  preside 
O'er  the  fate  of  our  counsels,  our  destinies  guide, 


DANIEL  WEBSTER.  17 


Hang  high  o'er  our  homes  thy  bright  balance  in  Heaven, 

And  by  thy  red  bolt  be  iniquity  riven. 

O  palsy  the  hand  by  extortion  corroded, 

Doom  peaceless  the  soul  by  its  infamy  goaded; 

If  guilt  with  her  train  of  dark  vassals  arrayed, 

The  quiet  dominions  of  Oxford  invade, 

The  Press  thy  artillery,  the  type  be  thy  bow, 

To  lay  the  base  miscreant  lifeless  and  low. 

His  corse  be  the  carrion  where  ravens  shall  feed, 

His  bones  bleach  the  turf  on  which  tramples  the  steed. 

But  when  the  oppressed  in  their  anguish  shall  cry, 

Their  cheek  pale  with  sorrow,  grief-smitten  their  eye, 

Then  deal  out  thy  mercy,  the  victim  opprest, 

From  the  gripe  of  the  ruthless  extortioner  wrest. 

The  Press  be  thine  angel,  our  faults  to  record, 

Our  vices  to  punish,  our  virtues  reward  ; 

Our  morals  to  chasten,  our  follies  expose, 

To  gladden  the  bosom  though  pregnant  with  woes, 

Our  minds  to  enlighten,  our  wand'  rings  correct, 

To  rescue  our  youth  who  in  vices  are  wrecked, 

Our  tastes  to  improve  and  our  manners  refine, 

And  point  the  bold  sinner  to  piety's  shrine. 

A  light  to  the  blind,  to  the  darkling  a  guide  ; 

A  bride  to  the  groom,  and  a  groom  to  the  bride. 

A  home  to  the  stranger,  a  guest  to  the  host, 

Who  brings  him  glad  tidings  of  a  heritage  lost. 

A  pillar  of  fire  to  enlighten  our  way, 

A  mirror,  the  scenery  of  life  to  display. 

The  yeomanry  chart  which  shall  point  out  the  soil 

Whose  bounties  shall  gladden  the  culturer's  toil. 

An  age  that  shall  ken  the  rich  secrets  of  earth, 

And  drag  them  reluctant  to  being  and  birth. 

tbzttr. 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  Daniel  Webster  -(born  in  Salisbury,  N.  H.  Jan.  18th  1782  )- 
was  teaching  school  at  Fryeburg,  in  this  State,  at  the  magnificent  salary  of  thiee  hun 
dred  Ind  fifty  dollars  per  annum;  he  also  did  the  writing  of  deeds  tor  James  Osgood, 
of  two  shillings  and  three  pence  for  each  deed.  While  teaching  here  he 
Fourth  of  July  oration  i/the  old  Fryeburg  church,  «id  ^so  ^ 


letter 


of  Dr    Thomas  P.  Hill  in  Webster's  Private  Correspondence.) 


OT,H  r  w  T  pwis  we  subioin  a  fragmentary  poem  written  by  \\  ebster  at  1  ryeburg,  .b  eb. 
$ih?i802,  addressed  tc  ffinU  W.  Fuller,  and  one  on  Washington,  written  by  him 
while  a  senior  in  college. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


MEMORY. 

Once  more  to  prattle  on  her  darling  theme, 
Once  more  to  wake  the  soft,  mellifluous  stream 
That  brings  us  all  our  blessings  as  it  flows, 
Whose  currents  friendship's  golden  ore  disclose, 

The  muse  essays  her  little  skill; 
And  though  her  lightsome  lay 
No  master's  hand  display, 
Though  loose  her  lyre  and  wild  her  song, 
Though  seraph  fire  tip  not  her  tongue, 

The  friend— oh,  such  a  friend!— will  hear  her  still. 
O  Memory !  thou  Protean  friend  and  foe, 
Parent  of  half  our  joy  and  half  our  woe, 
Thou  dost  the  rapture  which  I  feel,  impart, 
And  thou  the  griefs  that  press  around  my  heart, 

Thine  is  a  motley  train : 
Despondence  there  is  seen, 
And  Sorrow,  pale-faced  queen; 
And  Gladness  there,  with  merry  face, 
That  ne'er  did  wear  a  sad  grimace; 

And  buxom  Pleasure  sporting  o'er  the  plain. 

********** 
Next  moment,  lo !  appears 
Some  plenteous  cause  of  tears — 
Some  pleasure  fled  (for  pleasure  flies), 
Or  Simonds  sped  beyond  the  skies — 

And  memory  cancels  all  the  good  she  grants* — 


WASHINGTON. 

Ah!  Washington,  thou  once  didst  guide  the  helm 

And  point  each  danger  to  our  infant  realm ; 

Didst  show  the  gulf  where  factious  tempests  sweep, 

And  the  big  thunders  frolic  o'er  the  deep; 

Through  the  red  wave  didst  lead  our  bark,  nor  stood, 

Like  ancient  Moses,  the  other  side  the  flood. 

But  thou  art  gone,— yes,  gone,  and  we  deplore 

The  man,  the  Washington,  we  knew  before. 

But,  when  thy  spirit  mounted  to  the  sky, 

And  scarce  beneath  thee  left  a  tearless  eye, 

Tell  what  Elisha  then  thy  mantle  caught, 

Warmed  with  thy  virtue,  with  thy  wisdom  fraught. 

•Here  Mr.  Webster  adds  —"But  if  I  poetize  further  upon  Memory  I  shall  not  have 
room  to  tell  you  half  that  I  wish,  so  sweet  Miss  Muse,  we  will  dismiss  you. 


WILLIAM  BARTLETT  SEWALL.  19 

Say,  was  it  Adams?  was  it  he  who  bare 

His  country's  toils,  nor  knew  a  separate  care, 

Whose  bosom  heaved  indignant  as  he  saw 

Columbia  groan  beneath  oppression's  law, 

Who  stood  and  spurned  corruption  at  his  feet, 

Firm  as  "the  rock  on  which  the  storm  shall  beat?" 

Or  was  it  he  whose  votaries  now  disclaim 

Thy  godlike  deeds  and  sully  all  thy  fame? 

Spirit  of  Washington,  oh !  grant  reply, 

And  let  thy  country  know  thee  from  the  sky. 

Break  through  the  clouds,  and  be  thine  accents  heard, 

Accents  that  oft  'mid  war's  rude  onset  cheered. 

Thy  voice  shall  hush  again  our  mad  alarms, 

Lull  monster  faction  with  thy  potent  charms. 

And  grant  to  whosoe'er  ascends  thy  seat, 

Worth  half  like  thine,  and  virtues  half  as  great. 


jjittwm  §ai[tM  jjewall 

"No  name  "  says  Mr.  Willis,  "was  more  honored  at  the  bar  and  in  the  courts  of  Mas 
sachusetts  and  Maine  for  more  than  a  century  than  that  of  SewaU."  The  subject  of 
our  sketch  was  born  in  York,  Dec.  18, 1782,  and  entered  Harvard  in  1799,  where  he  was  a 
classmate  of  llev.  Dr.  Payson  of  Portland.  After  admission  to  the  bar,  he  opened  an 
office  in  Portland  was  admitted  to  the  Supreme  Court  in  Cumberland  County,  and  soon 
became  a  partner 'with  Chief  Justice  Mellen.  On  the  26th  of  Nov.,  1816,  he  married  Bet- 
sv  Cross  of  Portland  and  at  her  death,  three  years  later,  removed  to  Kennebunk.  In 
1824  he  returned  to  Portland  and  took  charge  of  the  editorial  department  of  the  Adver 
tiser  which  he  continued  to  conduct  several  years,  adding  in  the  meantime  a  semi- 
week'ly  edition.  In  1837  he  returned  to  Kennebunk,  re-married,  and  died  in  that  place 
on  the  4th  of  March  1869.  In  connection  with  Judge  Bourne,  Mr.  Sewall  prepared  the 
"Register  of  Maine"  for  1820.  He  was  a  ripe  scholar,  of  cultivated  taste  and  fine  thought, 
and  devoted  much  time  to  poetry  and  prose  composition. 


THE  GAMESTER'S  VERDICT. 

Won  against  the  unanimous  opinion  of  the  Judges  by  tampering  with  the  Jury. 

We  cut  and  shuffled,  stirred  our  stumps, 
But  zounds !  they  put  us  to  our  trumps. 
They  held  court  cards,  led  suit  beside ; 
With  all  four  honors  on  their  side; 
They  played  the  deuce-!  but  we,  more  brave, 
Finished  on  hearts,  and  played  the  knave. 
We  better  knew  the  pack  to  fix, 
And  won  the  game  at  last  by  tricks! 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


This  distinguished  philanthropist  was  born  at  Portland,  July  3d,  1783,  and  died  at  Cher- 
ryneld,  Feb.  20,  1879,  at  the  ripe  age  of  96.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1804 
having  written  considerable  for  the  Boston  Pollml-iinii  and  other  publications,  previous 
to  that  date.  Mr.  Sayward.  editor  of  the  Baru/or  Whin,  regarded  Mr.  F.  as  the  most 
versatile  writer  then  in  the  State,  and  many  of  his  best  Verses  were  written  under  nom 
de  plumes.  On  the  4th  of  July,  1808,  while  a  resident  of  Portland,  he  delivered  an  ora 
tion  in  the  old  wooden  First  Parish  meeting-house,  by  invitation  of  the  town  authorities. 
Mr.  freeman  became  a  well-read  lawyer,  and  Avas  also  very  successful  as  a  lecturer  and 
peace-maker.  It  is  said  that  lie  sometimes  spent  days  in  efforts  to  obtain  peaceful  set 
tlements  between  parties  who  applied  to  him  to  prosecute  or  defend  their  claims  before 
the  courts.  He  formerly  owned  the  very  large  tract  of  land  now  composing  the  towns 
of  Steuben,  Millbridge,  Harrington,  and  a  part  of  Cherryfleld.  And  vet  with  all  these 
opportunities  to  accumulate  wealth  he  left  comparatively  a  small  estate.  The  great  ob 
ject  of  his  life  seems  to  have  been  to  benefit  his  fellow-men,  and  for  this  he  had  the  re 
spect  and  esteem  of  all  in  his  region.  We  regret  that  our  space  will  not  allow  the  use 
*  more  than  one  of  his  poems.  He  was  a  voluminous  writer  on  a  great  variety  of  sub 
jects,  and  retained  his  faculties  until  the  last. 


UNITED  STATES  FLAG. 

AN   EXTRACT. 

At  a  Sabbath  School  exhibition  at  Cherryfield,  in  1863,  the  United  States  flag  was 
retched  over  the  stage.    In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  reflection  of  this  flag  was 
plainly  discovered  in  the  sky,  surrounded  with  stars,— one  of  uncommon  brightness 
d  bel°W  Jt'    At  th6  Sll88estion  of  a  lady'  Mr-  Freeman  wrote  the  follow- 

Oh !  see  amid  the  stars  of  night, 
That  pictured  flag,  like  Freedom's  own, 

It  streams  from  its  Cerulean  height, 
Where  flag  before  was  never  known. 

It  is  the  flag  our  Fathers  wrought, 

Behold  its  matchless  stripes  and  stars ! 
Beneath  its  spangled  folds  they  fought, 

And  victory  won  in  Freedom's  wars. 

Flag  of  the  noble  free  and  brave, 

We  joy  to  see  it  streaming  there, 
No  other  flag  deserves  to  wave 

So  high  in  fields  of  light  and  air. 

Oh  !  who  so  near  the  vaulted  sky 

Could  thus  our  hallo w'd  banner  raise, 
To  draw  aloft  the  raptur'd  eye, 

And  fill  the  soul  with  joy  and  praise. 

Outborne  from  Heav'n's  eternal  home, 
Our  Fathers  must  its  folds  have  spread, 

To  greet  and  honor  as  they  come 
The  spirits  of  the  martyred  dead. 


WILLIAM  FREEMAN.  21 

Who  round  it  rallied  to  defend 

The  cause  of  freedom  and  of  right, 
Nor  feared  to  meet  life's  sudden  end 

Upon  the  bloody  field  of  fight. 


Oh !  see  the  flag,  which  is  unfurled 
Above  that  bright  and  leading  star, 

It  is  the  Banner  of  the  World, 
Unrivall'd  both  in  peace  and  war. 

Where'er  it  floats  on  land  or  sea 

Or  blazons  in  the  upper  sky, 
It  is  the  glory  of  the  Free ; 

The  hope  011  which  th*  enslaved  rely. 

Oh  !  never  may  this  spangled  sheet 
Be  stain' d  by  failure  or  disgrace, 

But  when  it  shall  its  work  complete 
Of  blessing  all  the  human  race. 

Among  the  stars  it  should  be  placed, 
Where  men  and  angels  can  behold, 

That  on  its  folds  there  may  be  traced, 
The  proofs  of  glory,  which  they  hold. 

Our  Fathers  and  their  sons,  as  brave, 
Who  now  "from  all  their  labors  rest," 

And  who  their  lives  so  nobly  gave 
To  make  our  Country  free  and  blest; 

Will  then  with  wonder  and  delight, 
"The  Stars  and  Stripes,"  exalted  see 

And  in  this  lov'd  and  welcome  sight 
Keview  the  worth  of  liberty. 

And  if  to  all  the  joys  of  Heav'n, 

These  sainted  Patriots  there  possess, 

Another  blessing  can  be  giv'n, 

This  sight  will  add  the  charm  to  bless. 

Float  on !  float  011 !  thou  peerless  Flag ! 

The  race  of  freedom  must  be  run, 
No  loyal  step  shall  ever  lag 

Until  its  last,  best  prize  is  won. 


22  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Vlutm   Mlhn. 


William  Allen,  D.  D.,  the  third  President  of  Bowdoin  College,  and  author  of  the  first 
"Biographical  Dictionary"  in  the  United  States,  was  born  in  Pittsfield,  Mass.  Jan.  2d 
1784.  His  father,  Thomas  Allen,  was  the  first  settled  minister  in  that  town  aiid  a  man 
of  sterling  worth  and  note  in  his  day.  William  graduated  at  Cambridge  in  the  celebrat 
ed  class  of  1802.  He  was  proctor  in  Harvard  College  for  six  years,  and  his  duties  during 
that  period  being  light,  he  devoted  much  of  his  time  to  the  preparation  of  his  celebrated 
Dictionary,  which  he  brought  out  in  1809.  He  was  inaugurated  President  of  Bowdoin 
College  at  Brunswick  in  May,  1820.  Among  his  other  publications,  we  may  mention  "A 
Collection  of  Psalms  and  Hymns,"  many  of  which  were  original;  a  work  called  "Junius 
Unmasked,  ascribing  the  authorship  of  those  famous  letters  to  Lord  George  Sackville- 
and  in  185G  a  poem  entitled  "Wunnissoo."  Dr.  Allen  died  July  16,  1868. 

EXTRACT  FROM  "THE  YALE  OF  HOOSATUNNUK." 

Dear  Yale,  to  vie  with  thine  what  strains  shall  dare? 
•  Did  ever  warbler  half  so  sweetly  sing, 
As  red-breast,  filling  all  the  od'rous  air, — 

What  time  the  sun  breaks  through  the  shower  of  spring,— 
With  clear  and  hearty  notes,  that  rapture  bring, 

Tuning  the  praise  of  Him,  whose  cov'nant  bow 
Is  stretched  in  the  eastern  sky  on  fairy  wing, 

And  with  his  joyous  strains,  that  ceaseless  flow, 
Shaming  the  thankless  hearts,  which  with  no  fervors  glow? 

Did  ever  wild-flow' r  breathe  perfume  so  sweet 

As  thine,  or  ever  bear  so  rich  a  guise? 
The  modest  violet  beneath  my  feet, 

The  lowly  dandelion's  golden  dyes, 
The  moccasin  flow'r,  peerless  in  my  eyes, — 

Plucked  in  the  well-known  swamp  of  larch  and  brake, — 
Now  pruned,  alas,  a  meadow  smooth  it  lies, — 

With  snow-white  lily,  gathered  in  the  lake, 
All  in  my  glowing  heart  the  purest  joys  did  wake. 

Fresh  in  my  heart  is  now  the  village  green, — 

Though  distant  far,  and  years  have  rolled  away, — 
Where  church  and  school-house  stand  in  graceful  mien, 

And  where  my  eager  childhood  held  its  play. 
O  venerable  Elm  of  proud  array, 

Whose  tow' ring  head  o'ertops  the  temple's  vane, 
And  both  point  upward  to  the  realms  of  day ! 

Beneath  thee  oft  by  moonlight  have  I  lain, 
While  thy  vast  shadowy  length  was  stretched  along  the  plain. 

And  then  the  dark-blue  mountain,  on  whose  brow, 

Like  turban  on  the  Moor-man's  swarthy  face, 
The  clouds  were  often  wreath' d  in  folds  of  snow, 

Raised  his  huge  form  o'er  all  th'  incumbent  space, 
And  seemed  the  giant  guardian  of  the  place. 


CTEUS  EATON.  23 


Not  e'en  th'  Olympian  mount  on  Tempe's  vale 
Frowns  so  sublime,  nor  with  such  awful  grace ; — 

And  in  my  eye  e'en  Tempe's  charms  would  fail 
To  match  the  beauties  of  my  lovely,  native  dale. 

Pontoosuc  then  the  spot,  now  Pittsiield  named, 

So  called  from  him  whose  voice  the  chapel  shook, 
Where  England's  Senate  sate.     With  eye  inflamed 

With  indignation,  with  majestic  look, 
With  outstretched  arm,  and  tones,  which  terror  strook, 

He  cried,— as  liberty  his  great  heart  warms,— 
"American  were  I,  I  would  not  brook 

The  wrong;  and,  while  your  hirelings  spread  alarms, 
Never!  never!  never!  would  I  lay  down  my  arms!" 

These  beauties  live,  yet  all  to  me  are  dead : 

Changed  is  the  stream,  and  hill,  and  bird,  and  flower, 
For  childhood's  wondrous  garnishment  is  fled, 

And  many  a  dear  associate  of  the  hour, 
Whose  love  bestowed  on  all  the  scene  its  power, — 

A  father's  holy  face,  and  sister's  heart, 
And  brothers'  friendly  hands, — are  now  no  more. 

Th'  unpitying  king  has  struck  them  with  his  dart; 
And  faded  is  the  bliss,  which  nature's  charms  impart. 

The  forms  of  vanish' d  joys  do  haunt  the  scene, 

And,  hid  from  others,  glide  before  my  eye ; 
Ah,  who  can  calmly  see  their  mournful  mien, 

And  gaze  upon  th'  unreal  mockery? 
Yet,  Hoosatunnuk !  turns  my  soul  to  thee, 

And  rooted  scenes  still  in  my  memory  cling; 
No  force  can  tear  them  thence,  while  life  may  be. 

Then  let  me  to  my  God  an  offering  bring, 
While  of  my  native  vale  with  grief  and  joy  I  sing. 


Author  of  the  History  of  "Thomaston,  Rocklaiid,  and  South  Thomaston,"  "Annals  of 
Warren,"  etc.,  and  Corresponding  Member  of  the  Mass.  Hist.  Society,  member  of  the 


and  composed  very  good  verse.  His  father  was  a  soldier  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution, 
and  gave  his  life  for  the  cause  of  Liberty.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  Cyrus  began  his  ca 
reer  as  a  school-master  at  Southboro,  and  afterward  taught  at  Warren,  Me.;  where  he 
married  Mary  Lermond.  He  was  town  clerk  thirteen  successive  years,  justice  of  the 
peace  and  quorum  thirty-two  years,  assessor  nine  years,  Representative  to  the  Legisla 
ture  of  Massachusetts  five  years,  and  in  1819  a  member  of  the  Convention  which  framed 


24  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


ext«SedrS>ffi^andtheemo8teJ&SSl  surgical  operation  was  of  no  avail, 
his  mental  powers  vigorously  till  the  day  before  he  died. 


SOUTH  THOMASTON. 

Farewell,  thou  gallant  sea-girt  town, 
Where  Jordan  streams  so  long  have  rolled, 

And  Snows,  perennial  as  thy  crown, 
Through  all  the  year  held  sway  of  old. 

Long  mayst  thou,  like  an  eastern  queen, 

Calmly  amid  the  waters  sit, 
And  see  thy  Herds,  though  never  lean, 

Wax  fatter,  richer,  at  thy  feet. 

Long  may  the  Bridges  span  thy  streams ; 

The  Graves  no  sexton's  labor  need; 
Thy  Sleepers  wake  from  out  their  dreams, 

Nor  longer  spare  a  single  Weed. 

Let  Tliomdike  dike  thy  marshes  in; 

The  Emerys  scour  the  Eowells  up 
To  spur  thy  people  on  to  win 

In  virtue's  race  the  premium  cup;— 

Thy  Merriman  be  merry  still ; 

Brown  maidens  soon  be  brown  no  more ; 
Philbrook  thy  brooks  with  factories  fill, 

Till  Wades  can't  wade  nor  Drakes  swim  o'er. 

Still  let  thy  Sweetlands  sweetness  keep; 

Thy  Makers  see  to  what  they  make; 
The  Jumpers  look  before  they  leap ; 

The  Posts  stand  firm  without  a  stake. 

Still  may  thy  Stackpoles  stand  upright; 

Each  Dean  be  Swift  as  Erin's  was; 
Thy  Halls  and  Newhalls  open  quite 

To  every  friend  of  freedom's  cause. 

Still  let  thy  Singers  every  spring 
Return  to  chant  their  sweetest  tune, 

And  e'en  thy  Bobbins  join  to  sing 
Thy  praise  in  each  delightful  June. 


CYRUS  EATON.  25 


N  or  let  the  Perry  be  forgot, 

Delicious  liquor,  never  sour; 
Butlers  may  strive,  but  match  it  not 

With  all  the  wines  in  Pharaoh's  tower. 

Long  mayst  thou  'mid  thy  sons  repose; 

Thy  Dyers  dye,  but  not  expire; 
Thy  Pierces  only  pierce  thy  foes ; 

And  still  thy  Walls  be  rising  higher. 

As  coming  years  pass  o'er  thy  head, 
May  future  messengers  of  grace, 

New  Bakers  come  with  living  bread. 
Suited  to  thy  peculiar  Case. 

With  Snows  as  bright,  and  Foggs  as  light, 
As  those  that  blessed  thy  church  of  yore, 

And  no  new  schisms  ever  blight 

Thy  peace  and  Christian  kindness,  more. 


THE  TAPvRA  TINES'  VICTIMS.* 

The  Winds  that  through  the  vernal  bowers 

Or  Autumn's  leafless  branches  moan, 
Passed,  sighing,  o'er  their  place  of  rest, 

To  all  surviving  friends  unknown. 

The  tears  which  fond  affection  poured, 

Or  love  in  secret  sadness  shed, 
Bedewed  indeed  a  distant  sward, 

But  fell  not  on  their  lonely  bed. 

No  column  proud,  110  humble  stone, 

To  mark  the  spot,  was  reared  for  them; 
The  evening  thrush  and  beating  surge 

Performed  their  only  requiem. 

But  oft,  I  ween,  the  maiden  fair, 

Who  walks  with  pensive  step  at  eve, 
By  some  mysterious  influence  held, 

She'll  pause  upon  the  spot  to  grieve. 

Watch  011  from  age  to  age,  ye  stars ! 

And  beat,  thou  surge,  with  ceaseless  moan! 
Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  and  maiden  weep, 

Where  rest  the  brave  to  all  unknown ! 

*The  gallant  Capt.  Josiah  Winslow  and  his  little  band  who  perished  on  the  30th  of 
April,  1724,  May  llth,  (new  style)  at  Gondola  Island. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


jjnmw. 

Miss  Barnes  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Rev.  Thomas  Barries,  and  was  born  in  Jaffrey, 
N.  H.,  A.  IX  1780.  She  not  only  delighted  in  reading  and  study,  but  the  retentive  facul 
ties  of  her  mind  were  such  that  she  retained  no  ordinary  share  of  what  she  read.  Her 
father  removed  to  Poland,  this  State,  in  1799.  During  the  last  three  years  of  her  life, 
Miss  Barnes  Avrote  many  letters,  dissertations  and  pieces  of  poetry,  on  religious  sub 
jects,  some  of  which  Avere  collected  and  published  at  Portland,  (the  Anjus  office,)  in  a 
small  volume  soon  after  her  death,  by  the  urgent  solicitation  of  her  particular  friends. 
The  pamphlet  of  71  octavo  pages  is  entitled  "  THE  FKMALK  CHRISTIAN."  Another  edi 
tion  of  this  work  was  published  at  Auburn,  Me.,  in  1813.  Miss  Barnes  died  of  consump 
tion,  at  Poland,  Me.,  August  29,  1809,  in  the  29th  year  of  her  age.  The  last  production  of 
her  pen,  called  an  "  Exhortation,"  was  finished  the  day  before  her  death. 


WINTER  IN  MAY. 

The  following  lines  were  occasioned  by  the  sudden  change  of  the  weather  in  May,  1803. 

Alas,  what  now  can  Poets  say, 
Of  beautiful  and  pleasant  May? 
Who  have  so  often  tuned  their  lays 
To  speak  its  beauties  and  its  praise. 

The  pleasant  fields  are  wrapt  in  white. 

Their  verdure  veiled  from  our  sight; 

The  woods  are  left  quite  desolate, 

Whose  boughs  are  bending  'neath  their  weight. 

No  more  we  hear  the  chirping  birds; 
The  bleating  flocks,  and  lowing  herds 
Are  now  no  more  in  pastures  seen, 
Nor  shepherds  dancing  on  the  green. 

Such  is  the  song  we  hear  to-day, 
Upon  the  ninth  of  pleasant  May ; 
But  when  those  prospects  disappear, 
A  better  song  we  hope  to  hear. 

Thus  happy  whilst  we  glide  along, 
Heedless  of  sorrow's  wint'ry  storm, 
Then  comes  misfortune's  chilling  frost, 
The  buds  of  joy  and  hope  to  blast. 

But  though  our  pleasures  are  cut  dowj) 
By  disappointment's  cruel  frown, 
Yet  let  us  hope  they  '11  bloom  again, 
And  flourish  like  the  flowers  of  spring, 

When  lowing  herds  and  bleating  flocks, 
And  lambs  that  gambol  on  the  rocks, 
Once  more  with  shepherds  there  are  seen, 
And  lassies  dancing  on  the  green. 


HENRY  GODDARD.  27 


add<ird. 


Henry  Goddard,  son  of  Hon.  John  Goddard,  a  distinguished  New  Hampshire  statesman 
was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  Nov.  23d,  1785,  and  died  in  Portland,  Dec.  8th  1871.  Of* 
his  poem  "Earth's  Final  Destiny,"  published  in  pamphlet  form  in  1866, Hon.  John  Neal 
writes:  The  poem  of  itself  would  make  its  way,  at  any  time  and  in  any  age,  by  its  own 
momentum,  though  far  from  being  heavy;  and  by  the  simplicity  and  strength  which  char 
acterize  it."  Mr.  Goddard  was  also  an  occasional  writer  of  prose,  upon  subjects  of  public 

A  LOVER'S  POEM. 

Having  been  requested  by  an  adult  grandson  to  make  the  two  quoted  stanzas  the  nucle 
us  of  a  more  extended  description,  I  have  done  so  in  the  six  accompanying  verses. 

"  The  maid  I  love  has  violet  eyes, 

And  rose-leaf  lips  of  red — 
She  wears  the  moonshine  round  her  neck, 

The  sunshine  round  her  head." 

Her  cheeks  combine  the  morning  glow, 

With  evening's  rosy  hue — 
Her  forehead  speaks  of  Alpine  heights, 

Whose  mantle  is  the  snow. 

Complexion,  nose,  and  ear,  and  brow, 

Her  neck,  and  form,  and  hair, 
Are  such  as  fancy  may  conceive, 

But  pen  may  not  declare. 

By  one  trait  more  will  I  describe 

The  maiden  of  my  choice — 
Xo  harp,  JEolian,  e'er  excelled 

The  music  of  her  voice. 

While  all  unskilled  in  toilet  lore, 

One  borrowed  term  I'll  dare: 
A  flowery  wreath  adorns  her  brow, 

Culled  from  the  wide  parterre. 

"And  she  is  rich  in  every  grace, 

And  poor  in  every  guile — 
And  crowned  kings  might  envy  me 

The  splendor  of  her  smile." 

But  were  there  nought  but  youth  and  grace 

To  form  my  fair  one's  dower, 
The  speed  of  time  would  soon  dispel 

Their  fascinating  power. 

Hers  is  the  grace  of  heaven-born  truth — 
(Not  that  alone  that  fades  with  youth,) 

The  pearl  that  glows  with  purest  light, 
When  darkest  frowns  affliction's  night. 


28  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Jmrhs  jjenkin$. 


Eev.  Charles  Jenkins  was  born  in  Barre,]VIass.,  in  178C,  and  graduated  at  Williams  Col. 
lege  in  1823.  For  several  years  lie  was  preceptor  of  Westfiekl  Academy.  In  1820  lie  was 
settled  over  the  Congregational  Church  in  Greenfield, Mass. ,  where  he  remained  about 
five  years.  On  November  9th,  1825,  he  was  installed  pastor  of  the  Third  Church  in  Port 
land.  After  a  faithful  ministry  of  more  than  six  years,  he  died  on  Thursday  morning, 
December  29th,  1831,  Mr.  Jenkins  published  one  or  two  volumes  himself,  and  after  his 
decease,  in  1832,  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  given  to  the  public.  They  are  original,  and 
remarkably  well  written.  Mr.  Jenkins  is  supposed  to  be  the  author  of  the  following 
beautiful  hymn. 


SATURDAY  EVENING. 

Sweet  to  the  soul  the  parting  ray 
That  ushers  placid  evening  in, 

When  with  the  still  expiring  day, 
The  Sabbath's  peaceful  hours  begin; 

How  grateful  to  the  anxious  breast, 

The  sacred  hours  of  holy  rest! 

Hushed  is  the  tumult  of  this  day. 
And  worldly  cares  and  business  cease; 

While  soft  the  vesper  breezes  play, 

To  hymn  the  glad  return  of  peace. 
O  season  blest !  O  moments  given 

To  turn  the  vagrant  thoughts  to  heaven. 

Oft  as  this  hallowed  hour  shall  come, 
I  raise  my  thoughts  from  earthly  things, 

And  bear  them  to  my  heavenly  home, 
On  living  faith's  immortal  wings — 

Till  the  last  gleam  of  life  decay, 

In  one  eternal  Sabbath  day. 


zstltiw 

H  Carter  well  remembered  by  the  old  citizens  of  Portland,  was  born  at  the  "Iron 
Works'"  Concord  N.  H.,  Sept,  17,  1787,  and  died  at  Marseilles,  France,  Jan.  2,  1830.  He 
had  the  honor  of  being  one  of  the  earliest  teachers  of  the  poet  Longfellow.  Mr.  Carter 
graduated  at  Dartmouth  in  1811,  and  was  subsequently  widely  known  as  an  instructor 
and  literary  gentleman.  Of  his  class  of  fifty-five  at  Hanover  only  one  Avas  living  at  the 
publication  of  the  1880  Quinquennial-James  S.  Goodwin,  M.  !>.,  of  Portland.  Mr.  Car 
ter  was  Professor  of  Languages  at  Dartmouth  from  1817  to  1819;  travelled  in  Europe  and 
published  two  volumes  of  foreign  letters,  and  was  also  the  author  of  "Pains  of  Imagi 
nation  "  and  other  productions  in  verse.  Longfellow  attended  Mr.  Carter's  private  school 
in  Portland,  and  also  the  academy  in  that  place  taught  by  the  same. 

HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 

In  hymns  of  praise,  eternal  God! 

When  thy  creating  hand 
Stretched  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  abroad, 

And  meted  sea  and  land, 


NATIIANIKL  HAZKLTINE  CARTER.  29 


The  morning  stars  together  sung, 
And  shouts  of  joy  from  angels  rung. 

Than  Earth's  prime  hour,  more  joyous  far 

Was  the  eventful  morn, 
When  the  bright  beam  of  Bethlehem's  star 

Announced  a  Saviour  born ! 
Then  sweeter  strains  from  heaven  began, 
"Glory  to  God — good  will  to  man." 

Babe  of  the  manger!  can  it  be? 

Art  thou  the  Son  of  God? 
Shall  subject  nations  bow  the  knee, 

And  kings  obey  thy  nod? 
Shall  thrones  and  monarchs  prostrate  fall 
Before  the  tenant  of  a  stall? 

'T  is  He!  the  hymning  seraphs  cry, 
While  hovering,  drawn  to  earth ; 

'Tis  He!  the  shepherds'  songs  reply, 
Hail!  hail  Immanuel's  birth  ! 

The  rod  of  peace  those  hands  shall  bear, 

That  brow  a  crown  of  glory  wear. 

'Tis  He!  the  Eastern  sages  sing, 
And  spread  their  golden  hoard ; 

'Tis  He!  the  hills  of  Sion  ring 
Hosamia  to  the  Lord ! 

The  Prince  of  long  prophetic  years 

To-day  in  Bethlehem  appears ! 

He  comes!  the  Conqueror's  inarch  begins; 

No  blood  his  banner  stains; 
He  comes  to  save  the  world  from  sins, 

And  break  the  captive's  chains! 
The  poor,  the  sick  and  blind  shall  bless 
The  Prince  of  Peace  and  Righteousness. 

Though  now  in  swaddling  clothes  he  lies, 
All  hearts  his  power  shall  own, 

When  he,  with  legions  from  the  skies, 
The  clouds  of  heaven  his  throne, 

Shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and  dead, 

And  strike  a  trembling  world  witli  dread. 


30  THE  POET*  OF  MAINE. 


(jtwch  Ijlncoln. 


Hon.  Enoch  Lincoln,  the  third  Governor  of  this  State,  was  the  fourth  son  of  Levi  Lin 
coln  of  Massachusetts,  and  was  born  Dec.  28th,  1788,  at  Worcester,  Mass.  He  was  grad 
uated  at  Cambridge  in  1807,  studied  law  arid  pursued  the  profession  for  a  short  time  in 
Salem.  Returning  to  his  native  town,  lie  practiced  there  with  considerable  reputation; 
thence  he  removed  to  Fryeburg,  this  State,  and  thence  to  Paris,  where  he  so  distinguish 
ed  himself  that  he  gained  an  election  to  the  Congress  of  the  United  States  and  at  last 
became  Governor  of  this  State.  By  his  firm  and  manly  course,  Maine  saved  her  title 
and  but  for  him,  too,  the  title  deeds  of  Maine— the  very  groundwork  of  her  history  and 
safety— would  never  have  been  put  within  her  reach.  Mr.  Lincoln  was  a  great  lover  of 
literature  and  literary  men,  and  wrote  poetry  himself  of  genuine  merit.  He  died  at 
Augusta,  October  8th,  1829.  From  his  descriptive  and  didactic  poem  of  over  two  thous 
and  lines,  on  the  scenery  of  the  Saco  valley,  and  of  rural  life  and  characters  in  Maine 
we  make  the  following  extracts: 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE  SHADE  OF  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF. 

e  spoilers  of  all  which  the  red  man  possessed, 
Why  disturb  ye  my  shade  in  the  peace  of  the  grave? 
In  the  region  of  spirits  why  trouble  my  rest, 
And  blacken  the  fame  of  the  great  and  the  brave? 

When  ye  came  o'er  the  big  rolling  waters  afar, 
We  received  you  as  brothers  and  gave  you  our  food; 

But  ye  burst  on  our  heads  with  your  thunders  of  war, 
Ye  plundered  our  wigwams  and  drank  of  our  blood. 

Ye  robbed  from  our  hunters  the  wilds  of  their  game, 
With  our  wives  and  our  children  ye  drove  us  away ; 

To  our  Chiefs  with  the  furies  of  discord  ye  came, 
And  incited  our  Tribes  on  each  other  to  prey. 

Yet  never  with  us  from  the  calumet  smoked, 

Nor  the  sagamite  feast  of  our  friendship  partook. 

Ye  white  men,  complain  not  of  ills  ye  provoked, 
For  our  laws  and  our  customs  we  never  forsook. 

The  Indian  forgives  not;  to  vengeance  excited, 

He  pursues  it  o'er  rivers,  and  forests,  and  mountains; 

In  the  torture  of  foemeii  his  soul  is  delighted, 
And  the  veins  to  his  lips  are  the  sweetest  of  fountains. 

The  fair  tresses  which  living  in  our  cabins  can  tell 
How  deeply  you've  felt  for  the  wrongs  we  have  borne; 

By  the  death-dealing  blows  of  Eevenge  as  they  fell, 
From  your  wives  and  your  children  those  tresses  were  torn. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  when  all  nature  was  hushed, 

As  eager  as  wolves  and  as  swrift  as  the  deer, 
Our  heroes  in  arms  on  your  villages  rushed, 

While  death  winged  the  arrow  and  crimsoned  the  spear. 


ENOCH  LINCOLN.  31 


In  the  regions  of  pleasure,  afar  to  the  west, 
Where  rich  are  the  fields  and  unclouded  the  Sun, 

Those  warriors  repose  in  the  mansions  of  rest, 
And  in  triumph  rejoice  for  the  spoils  they  have  won. 

Each  moon  gives  their  harvest,  each  mead  waves  with  corn, 
Plenty  smiles  at  the  feast,  rosy  Health  nerves  the  frame; 

The  evergreen  Spring  decks  with  blossoms  the  lawn, 

Fish  sport  in  the  stream,  and  the  woods  teem  with  game. 

For  you,  may  bad  spirits,  who  hover  around, 

Blast  your  lives  with  each  curse,  and  with  plagues  taint  the  air, 
May  famine,  disease,  and  contention  abound, 

Till  our  lands  you  restore  and  our  wrongs  you  repair. 


THE  LAWYER. 

First  comes  the  lawyer;  'tis  an  honored  name, 

A  title  glorious  on  the  roll  of  fame, 

Too  dear  for  wealth,  which  birth  cannot,  bestow, 

Or  flattery  wreath  around  a  lordling's  brow; 

A  title  from  the  fame  of  Science  borne, 

By  weary  vigils  earned,  by  wisdom  worn, 

Of  import  vast,  in  which  the  honors  blend 

Of  honors  champion  and  of  freedom's  friend; 

Yet  Justice  fails  the  sacred  name  to  save 

From  profanation  of  the  fool  and  knave, 

Who,  Jackdaws  still,  the  peacock  pomp  assume, 

And  strut  in  pride  with  half  a  pilfered  plume. 

Man's  vicious  nature  is  the  primal  cause, 

Which  called  to  being  government  and  laws, 

Rude,  simple  systems  once,  but  grown  at  last, 

As  men  and  arts  increased,  confused  and  vast. 

The  shields  of  weakness,  terror  of  the  strong, 

The  guards  of  right,  and  punishers  of  wrong, 

Their  aim  is  Justice,  equity  their  end, 

The  common  good  the  point  to  which  they  tend; 

But  such  the  fault  of  language  or  of  mind, 

So  various  the  concerns  of  human  kind, 

No  code  can  circle  their  prodigious  range, 

Apply  to  all,  and  follow  as  they  change. 

To  break  them,  therefore,  and  be  still  secure, 

To  find  out  legal  ways  to  grind  the  poor, 

To  cheat  the  honest  and  the  rogue  to  aid, 

Has  grown  an  odious,  pettifogging  trade. 


TlIK  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Prompt  with  demurrers,  skilful  in  abatements, 

To  circumvention  trained,  and  bold  in  statements, 

Each  villain's  hireling.,  used  by  every  knave, 

Of  meanest  wretches  e'en  a  meaner  slave, 

To  rob  too  cowardly,  too  proud  to  steal, 

The  pettifogger  preys  on  public  weal, 

And  makes  some  Justice,  a  commissioned  fool, 

For  paltry  aims  a  secret  legal  tool. 

Or  deeper  cheats,  to  gain  him  larger  fees, 

Performs  by  quibbles,  sophistry  and  pleas. 


TIIK  COUNTRY  JUSTICE. 

.Squire  Quirk,  the  Justice,  to  dispense  the  laws. 
Sits  in  the  pride  of  pow'r  to  judge  the  cause, 
Grave  as  an  owl  in  solemn  state  presides, 
And  as  sly  Varus  bids,  the  cause  decides: 
Vain  all  authorities,  and  Justice  vain, 
N"ot  Dexter's  self  a  single  point  could  gain: 
Cold  as  the  snows  which  freeze  around  the  pole, 
Xo  eloquence  could  warm  his  frigid  soul; 
Dark  as  the  shades  of  Milton's  Stygian  night, 
His  mind  admits  no  glimmering  ray  of  light; 
Too  dull  for  reasoning  and  too  proud  for  shame, 
Xo  power  can  move  him  from  his  steadfast  aim. 


Jjjxtlwnul  jjtmng. 


This  gentleman  was  born  in  Portland,  June  25th,  1791,  and  was  one  of  the  wealthiest  and 
most  influential  of  its  citizens.    He  was  educated  at  Harvard  College,  and  as  a  literary 
Tha/tn     '  °,CCfP^d  a  ¥gh  nP°sit]ion  in  the  "good  old  days"  of  Neal,&Mellen  and  Gutter! 
ie  longest  of  his  poetical  productions,  which  contains  many  passages  of  real  merit,  is 
a  dramatic  poem  entitled  "  Carabasset;  a  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts."    He  was  also  the  autnor 
Y  sketches.     Mr.  Deer  ing  died  Mar.  25th,  1881,  in  the  ninetieth  year  of 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  TWO  FOLLIES. 

A   BALLAD. 

'Twas  a  starless  night,  with  drifting  clouds, 

And  angry  heaved  the  seas  ; 
Yet  a  pink-stern  craft  was  under  sail, 

Her  name  was  the  "  Two  Polleys." 

And  she  was  built  at  Mount  Desert. 

And  what  might  her  cargo  !><•? 
She  was  for  a  long  time  on  the  Banks. 

And  while  there  was  vcrv  luckv. 


NAT  II A  MEL  DEE  RING.  33 


But  darker  and  darker  grew  the  night, 

And  loud  did  ocean  roar, 
So  they  two  reefs  in  the  mainsail  took. 

And  one  reef  in  the  fore. 

The  Skipper  Bond  was  at  the  helm, 

Methinks  I  see  him  now— 
The  tobacco  juice  on  his  mouth  and  chin, 

And  the  salt  spray  on  his  browr. 

The  other  hand  was  Isaac  Small, 

And  only  one  eye  had  he; 
But  that  one  eye  kept  a  sharp  look-out 

For  breakers  under  the  lee. 

All  unconcerned  was  Skipper  Bond, 

For  he  was  a  seaman  bold ; 
But  he  buttoned  his  feariiaught  higher  up, 

And,  said  he,  "'Tis  getting  cold." 

"  Odd's  bloods!    I  must  the  main  brace  splice, 

So,  Isaac,  let  us  quaff — 
And  as  the  wTind's  a  snorter,  mind 

And  mix  it  half  and  half." 

The  skipper  raised  it  to  his  lips, 

And  soon  the  dipper  drained, 
A  second  and  a  third  he  took, 

Nor  of  its  strength  complained. 

"  Shake  out  the  reefs!  haul  aft  fore  sheet! 

I  am  not  the  man  to  flag, 
With  a  breeze  like  this,  in  the  '  Two  Polleys' — 

So  give  her  every  rag." 

Aghast,  poor  Isaac  heard  the  call, 

And  tremblingly  obeyed; 
For  he  knew  full  well  the  skipper  was  one 

Who  would  not  be  gainsayed. 

"  Isaac,  my  lad,  now  go  below, 

And  speedily  turn  in ; 
I  '11  call  you  when  off  Portland  Light, 

We  now  are  off  Seguin." 

The  skipper  was  alone  on  deck — 

"Steady,  my  boys,"  he  cried; 
And  hardly  would  the  words  escape, 

When  "Steady  'tis,"  he  replied. 


34  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"A  plague  on  all  our  Congressmen! 

Light-houses  so  thick  I  see — 
Odd's  bloods!  on  such  a  darksome  night 

They  bother  exceedingly." 

'Twas  a  sad  mistake;  he  saw  but  one, 

And  that  was  not  Seguin ; 
But  the  skipper's  brain  like  the  Light  revolved,  - 

He  had  lost  his  reckoning. 

And  what  of  her,  the  "Two  Polleys?" 

She  still  did  the  helm  obey; 
Though  her  gunwales  kissed  the  hissing  surge, 

And  her  deck  was  washed  with  spray. 

She  neared  the  rocks,  and  the  waves  ran  high, 
But  the  skipper  heard  not  their  roar; 

His  hand  was  clutched  to  the  well-lashed  helm, 
But  his  head  was  on  the  floor. 

The  sun  shone  out  on  Richmond's  Isle, 

But  what  is  that  on  the  strand? 
A  broken  mast  and  a  tattered  sail, 

Half-buried  in  the  sand. 

And  there  were  heaps  of  old  dunfish, 

The  fruits  of  many  a  haul, 
But  nothing  was  seen  of  the  old  skipper, 

Nor  of  one-eyed  Isaac  Small. 

Three  days  had  gone  when  a  "  homeward  bound" 

Was  entering  Casco  Bay; 
And  Richmond's  Isle  bore  nor  "-nor  '-west, 

And  for  that  her  course  she  lay. 

Yet  scarcely  three  knots  did  she  make, 

For  it  was  a  cat's-paw  breeze, 
And  the  crew  hung  idly  round  her  bows, 

Watching  the  porpoises. 

But  there  leans  one  on  the  quarter-rail, 

And  a  sudden  sight  he  sees, 
There  floating  past — 'tis  a  smack's  pink  stern, 

And  on  it — the  "Two  Polleys." 


NATHANIKL  DEE  RING.  35 


FATHER  RALE'S*  SOLILOQUY. 

AN   EXTRACT    FROM   CARABASSET. 

Poor  children  of  the  forest !  thanks  to  Heaven, 

Here  you  can  rest  your  weary  limbs  at  last, 

Nor  fear  surprise.     May  all  be  calm  within — 

Calm  as  the  noble  stream  that  sweeps  around 

Your  humble  habitations.     Oh !  how  still 

And  solemn  is  the  hour.     So  lightly  falls 

The  footstep  011  this  moss,  't  would  scarce  be  heard, 

Were  it  not  strewn  with  Autumn's  dying  leaves; 

Fit  emblem  of  our  fate !  'a  moment  fair, 

And  fresh,  and  fragrant,  and  then — low  in  dust. 

Hark!  'tis  the  howling  of  the  famished  wolf, 

Snuffing  the  track  of  some  tall  antlered  moose, 

As  he  goes  down  to  bathe  him  in  the  waters ; 

He 's  ever  011  the  watch,  nor  tires  of  blood. 

And  so  is  man  when  left  unto  himself, 

Uncivilized,  with  passions  uncontrolled, 

Knowing  no  law  but  arbitrary  will, 

And  rendered  desperate  by  persecution. 


THE  SOLITARY. 

I  saw  him  in  his  loneliness;  and  grace 
Attractive  shone  with  dignity  combined, 
And  in  his  matchless  features  one  might  trace 
The  march  of  thought,  the  majesty  of  mind; 
And  his  was  one  that  learning  had  refined, 
And  it  was  full  of  high  imaginings. 
No  more  the  joys  of  time  and  sense  could  bind 
Him  down  to  earth;  on  fancy's  fairy  wings 
He  loved  aloft  to  soar  and  muse  011  heavenly  things. 

True  he  had  bent  the  knee,  in  youthful  day, 
At  Folly's  shrine  admiring  crowds  among, 
Who  blindly  followed  where  he  led  the  way, 
For  there  was  melting  music  on  his  tongue. 
But  soon  he  found  her  gilded  trappings  hung 
Full  heavily,  her  joys  the  senses  pall. 
Ah,  then  the  retrospect  his  bosom  wrung; 
What  were  the  banquet  and  the  festival, 
What  but  the  pageants  of  an  hour,  and  idle  all. 

*Father  Rale  was  a  French  priest  whose  history  is  well  known  to  the  citizens  of  our 
State. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Wealth  had  been  his,  and  while  that  wealth  remained 
Those  who  the  world  called  friends  had  flocked  around. 
But  none  in  adverse  fortunes  he  retained 
Save  one,  and  she  now  slumbered  in  the  ground. 
How  oft  he  lingered  near  her  lowly  mound  ! 
And  yet  he  murmured  not  in  his  laments; 
A  few  more  sands  run  out,  and  then  his  round 
Like  hers  would  terminate,  to  get  hence 
Was  now  his  fervent  wish,  if  so  willed  Providence. 

And  yet  he  hated  not  a  thankless  world; 
'Twas  his  to  mourn  the  vices  of  the  age: 
To  rescue  those  in  Folly's  vortex  hurled, 
To  bind  the  broken  heart,  its  pains  assuage. 
For  such  he  spread  the  consecrated  page. 
For  such  how  oft  lie  agonized  in  prayer! 
Urged  them  to  seek  that  goodly  heritage 
Which  their  loved  Master  promised  to  prepare 
i^or  those  who  sought  his  feet  and  cast  their  burden  there. 


The  Hon.  Josiah  Pierce  was  born  in  Baldwin,  Aug.  15, 1792,  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College 
in  1818,  and  in  1821  opened  a  law  office  in  Gorham.  He  was  elected  to  offices  of  town  trust, 
and  was  representative  to  the  Legislature  in  1834-35,  State  senator  for  three  years,  and 
President  of  the  Senate.  From  1846  to  1856  he  was  Judge  of  Probate  for  Cumberland 
County.  In  early  life  the  Judge  wrote  poetry,  as  we  find  the  following  from  his  pen, 
published  in  "The  Muse,  or  Flowers  of  Poetry,"  a  choice  collection  of  "Odes,  Poems, 
Songs,"  etc.,  issued  by  Sam'l  W.  Cole,  author  of  the  "  Columbian  Spelling  Book,"  in  1827, 
at  Cornish,  Me.  Judge  Pierce  died  June  26, 1866,  aged  73.  His  son  Josiah  was  Secretary 
of  Legation  at  Kussia,  under  Caleb  Gushing.  He  has  since  been  made  a  Baron,  and  re 
sides  in  England. 


WHEN  FIRST  CO  Li:  MI  JUS. 

When  first  Columbus  o'er  the  wave 

His  veiit'rous  nag  unfurled, 
And  to  the  breeze  his  canvas  gave, 

To  seek  the  western  world, 
One  boundless  forest  o'er  this  clime 
Its  mantling  branches  waved  sublime. 

No  light  of  science  e'er  had  beamed 

On  Nature's  Indian  child, 
Nor  Bethlehem's  cheering  star  had  gleamed 

Across  the  desert  wild; 
N  o  lofty  palace  art  had  formed, 
No  cultured  field  the  vale  adorned. 


SEBA   SMITH.  37 


But  lo !  before  our  hardy  sires, 

The  ancient  forest  falls ; 
Religion  lifts  her  tow' ring  spires. 

And  Learning  rears  her  Avails; 
And  Genius  lights  her  vestal  fire, 
To  burn  when  nature's  orbs  expire. 

Where'er  the  savage  chieftain  led 

His  wretched  tribe  along, 
Th'  enlightened  sons  of  science  tread. 

And  virtue's  daughters  throng; 
And  friendship's  pure,  celestial  ray, 
With  magic  brightness,  gilds  the  way. 

Here  Taste,  Refinement,  Art,  shall  join, 

To  bless  their  favorite  seat, 
And  Peace  and  Truth  with  smiles  divine 

Illume  the  fair  retreat; 
And  every  virtue  circle  here 
Till  earth  shall  end  her  proud  career. 


gnrith. 

SC:  — — 

Seba  Smith  the'  original  "Major  Downing,"  was  born  Sept.  4,  1792  in  a  logliouse  put 
TIP  by  his  father  in  the  woods  of  Bucklield.  In  his  early  youth  the  family  removed  to 
Bddgton  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  had  made  so  good  use  of  his  scanty  opportunities 
for  learning  as  to  he  employed  in  teaching  school.  He  went  to  the  new  academy  m 
Bridgton,  and  the  principal  perceiving  his  talents,  suggested  a  collegiate  course  Eiiter- 
hm  Bowdoin  College  he  was  highly  successful;  studied  law  m  the  city  of  Portland,  was 
Sfidfttodto  ftolNV  and  commenced  practice.  When  about  thirty-two  years  old,  he  mar 
ried  Miss  ^izabeth  Oakes  Prince,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl  of  sixteen,  who  had 
attracted  his  attention  and  Avon  his  heart  by  her  beauty  and  precocious  talent.  As  editor 
of  the  "  Eastern  Argus,"  he  made  it  one  of  the  most  popular  journals  m  the  State  In 
1830  he  started  the  Portland  Daily  Courier.  Soon  after  this  he  removed  to  the  city  of 
New  York  and  renewed  the  practice  of  his  profession.  As  a  prose  writer  he  acquired  a 
very  high  reputation,  and  also  wrote  excellent  verse.  Mr.  Smith  and  his  wife,  the  dis 
tinguished  E.  Oakes  Smith,  have  been  justly  called  the  "  Howitts  of  America."  But  Mr. 
Smith's  studies  and  meditations  were  not  confined  to  the  realms  of  story  and  song. 
All  other  labors  he  regarded  as  trifling  when  compared  with  his  "  New  Elements  of  Ge 
ometry  "  an  octavo  volume  of  two  hundred  pages— the  result  of  three  years'  work— pub 
lished  in  1850.  Mr.  Smith  died  July  29th,  1868,  at  Patchogue,  Long  Island. 

THE  SNOW  STORM. 

"  In  the  year  1821,  a  Mrs.  Blake  perished  in  a  snow  storm  in  the  night  time,  while  trav 
elling  over  a  spur  of  the  Green  Mountains  in  Vermont.  She  had  an  infant  with  her, 
which  was  found  alive  and  well  in  the  morning,  being  carefully  wrapped  in  the  mother  s 
clothing." 

The  cold  wind  swept  the  mountain's  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And  'mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night, 

A  mother  wandered  with  her  child. 
As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  pressed, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 
And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow ; 

Her  limbs  were  chilled,  her  strength  was  gone. 

"Oh,  God,"  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

"If  1  must  peris]),  save  my  child!" 

She  stripped  the  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapped  the  vest, 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss  one  tear  she  shed, 

And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a  traveller  passed  by, 

And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil. 
The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale; 
He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child, 
The  babe  looked  up  and  sweetly  smiled ! 


THE  LITTLE  GKAVES. 

'T  was  autumn,  and  the  leaves  were  dry, 

And  rustled  on  the  ground, 
And  chilly  winds  went  whistling  by 

With  low  and  pensive  sound. 

As  through  the  grave-yard's  lone  retreat 

By  meditation  led, 
I  walked  with  slowT  and  cautious  feet 

Above  the  sleeping  dead, — 

Three  little  graves,  ranged  side  by  side, 

My  close  attention  drew; 
O'er  two  the  tall  grass,  bending,  sighed, 

And  one  seemed  fresh  and  new. 

As  lingering  there  I  mused  awhile 
On  death's  long,  dreamless  sleep, 

And  morning  life's  deceitful  smile, 
A  mourner  came  to  weep. 

Her  form  was  bowed,  but  not  with  years, 
Her  words  were  faint  and  few, 

And  on  those  little  graves  her  tears 
Distilled  like  evening  dew. 


SEHA  SMITH. 


A  prattling  boy,  some  four  years  old, 
Her  trembling  hand  embraced, 

And  from  my  heart  the  tale  he  told 
Will  never  be  effaced. 

"Mamma,  now  you  must  love  me  more, 

For  little  sister  's  dead  ; 
And  t'  other  sister  died  before, 

And  brother,  too,  you  said. 

"  Mamma,  what  made  sweet  sister  die? 

She  loved  me  when  we  played; 
You  told  me,  if  I  would  not  cry, 

You'd  show  me  where  she's  laid." 

"'Tis  here,  my  child,  that  sister  lies, 

Deep  buried  in  the  ground, 
No  light  comes  to  her  little  eyes, 

And  she  can  hear  no  sound." 

'  '  Mamma,  why  can't  we  take  her  up, 

And  put  her  in  my  bed? 
I  '11  feed  her  from  my  little  cup, 

And  then  she  won't  be 


"  For  sister  '11  be  afraid  to  lie 

In  this  dark  grave  to-night, 
And  she  '11  be  very  cold,  and  cry 

Because  there  is  no  light." 

"No,  sister  is  not  cold,  my  child, 

For  God,  who  saw  her  die, 
As  He  looked  down  from  heaven  and  smiled, 

Called  her  above  the  sky. 

"And  then  her  spirit  quickly  fled 

To  God  to  whom  'twas  given; 
Her  body  in  the  ground  is  dead, 

But  sister  lives  in  heaven." 

"  Mamma,  won't  she  be  hungry  there, 

And  want  some  bread  to  eat? 
And  who  will  give  her  clothes  to  wear, 

And  keep  them  clean  and  neat? 

"  Papa  must  go  and  carry  some, 

I  '11  send  her  all  I  've  got, 
And  he  must  bring  sweet  sister  home, 

Mamma,  now  must  he  not?" 


40  THE  I'OETK  OF  MAINE. 


"  No,  my  dear  child,  that  cannot  be; 

But  if  you're  good  and  true, 
You  '11  one  day  go  to  her,  hut  she 

Can  never  come  to  you. 

"Let  little  children  come  to  m<\ 
Once  our  good  Saviour  said ; 

And  in  his  arms  she'll  always  be, 
And  God  will  give  her  bread." 


iolm 

John  Neal  Esq.  also  known  in  the  literary  world  as  "John  O'Cr  taract,"  was  born  in 
Portland  Aug.  25th,  1793,  and  died  there  in  1876.  He  was  not  a  college  graduate,  but  a 
self-educated  man,  and  through  his  perseverance  and  great  industry,  gained  success  in 
literary  acquirements.  In  early  manhood  Mr.  Xeal  was  in  co-partnership  with  John 
Pierpont  afterward  known  as  Rev.  John  Pierpont,  the  poet,  in  mercantile  pursuits,  but 
not  meeting  with  success,  they  abandoned  trade,  and  chose  the  more  hazardous  one  of 


ing 

literature 
appear 
ara  and  ot 
other  publications. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  TOMB. 

Rash  man! — Forbear! 
Thou  wilt  not  surely  tread 

On  the  annointed  head 

Of  him  that  slumbereth  there ! 

Would 'st  meet  the  God  of  such  as  thon 

With  that  unstartled  brow ! 
With  covered  head  and  covered  feet 
Where  William  Shakespeare  used  to  meet 

His  God, 
Uncovered  and  unshod, 

In  prayer ! 

Thou  wilt  not  surely  venture  where 

But  sleeps  the  awful  dead, 

With  this  irreverent  air, 

And  that  alarming  tread. 

What,  ho? 

Beware ! 

The  very  dust,  below 

The  haughty  dead,  will  make 

The  walls  about  thee  shake, 

If  that  uplifted  heel, 

shod  as  it  is  with  steel. 

Should  fall  on  Shakespeare's  head! 


JOI1\    XEAL.  41 

THE  niirni  OF  A  POET. 

On  a  blue  summer  night, 
When  the  stars  were  asleep, 
Like  gems  of  the  deep, 
In  their  drowsy  light; 
While  the  newly-mown  hay 
On  the  green  earth  lay, 
And  all  that  came  near  it  went  scented  away. 

From  a  lone,  woody  place 
There  looked  out  a  face, 
With  large,  blue  eyes, 
Like  the  wet,  warm  skies, 
Brim  full  of  water  and  light; 
A  profusion  of  hair 
Flashing  out  in  the  air, 
A  nd  a  forehead  alarmingly  bright ! 

'T  was  the  head  of  a  poet!     He  grew 
As  the  sweet,  strange  flowers  of  the  wilderness  grow, 
In  the  dropping  of  natural  dew, 
Unheeded  —  alone  — 
Till  his  heart  had  blown — 
As  the  sweet,  strange  flowers  of  the  wilderness  blow ! 

Till  every  thought  wore  a  changeable  strain, 
Like  flower-leaves  wet  writh  the  sunset  rain; 
A  proud  and  passionate  boy  was  he, 
Like  all  the  children  of  Poesy; 
With  a  haughty  look,  and  a  haughty  tread, 
And  something  awful  about  his  head; 
With  wonderful  eyes, 
Full  of  woe  and  surprise, — 

Like  the  eyes  of  them  that  see  the  dead. 

Looking  about, 

For  a  moment  or  two,  he  stood 
On  the  shore  of  the  mighty  wood; 

Then  ventured  out, 

With  a  bounding  step  and  a  joyful  shout, 
The  brave  sky  bending  o'er  him ! 
The  broad  sea  all  before  him! 

CAPE  COTTAGE. 

Hurrah  for  Cape  Cottage,  hurrah ! 

Hurrah  for  a  sight  of  the  Sea ! 
Hurrah  for  the  girls  that  are  found  there ! 

5 


42  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Hurrah  for  the  rocks  that  abound  there! 
With  perch  weighing  more  than  a  pound  there ! 
Hurrah  for  the  wind  blowing  free! 

Bend,  brothers,  bend,  with  all  your  might! 

Stretch  forward !  keep  her  to  it ! 
Lo,  the  dark  surges  flashing  bright ! 
Lo,  the  blue  waters  tumbling  white! 

Hurrah,  boys!  drive  her  through  it! 

Hurrah  for  Cape  Cottage,  hurrah ! 

Hurrah  for  the  hedges  of  roses — 
Hurrah  for  the  trees  and  the  flowers. 
The  berries,  the  blossoming  showers, 
Sea  serpents  and  pearls, 
The  boys  and  the  girls, 

And  the  beach  where  old  ocean  reposes. 

There's  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  the  hope  of  good  cape, 

To  comfort  the  man  of  the  Sea; 

There's  the  frightful  "Cape  Horn," — for  the  married  "Cape  Fear," 
And  that  nice  little  cape  that  belongs  to  my  dear — 
Of  a  tissue  so  thin  that  they  call  it  "Cape  Clear," 

The  last  to  be  doubled  by  me. 

There's  Cape  Cod  and  Cape  Ann — 
Bless  your  soul,  what  a  span — 

Cape  Lookout  and  Hatteras  too — 
And  the  capes  of  Virginia  the  strangest  of  all — 
For  O,  how  strangely  they  rise  and  fall, 
In  the  sweet  sea-breeze  and  the  midnight  ball, 

That's  held  on  the  Ocean  blue — 
Oh,  say  what  you  will  of  the  Capes  of  the  Sea, 
The  capes  of  the  land  are  the  capes  for  me. 

Bend,  brothers,  bend !  there  lies  the  shore — 

Spring  to  it — all  together! 
Now,  where  the  tumbling  surges  roar, 
Along  the  deep  "un trampled  floor," 

We  go  like  a  dancing  feather ! 

Then  hurrah  for  Cape  Cottage,  hurrah ! 

Hurrah  for  the  blossoming  trees ! 
Hurrah  for  the  beautiful  women ! 

Hurrah  for  the  shells  and  the  moss — 

Hurrah  for  the  chasms  to  cross ! 
With  places  to  swim  in, 
All  tranquil  and  brimmin'— 

Hurrah  for  the  sounding  sea-breeze ! 


CHARLES  SOULE.  43 


hnrh$  Monk. 


Rev.  Charles  Soule,  a  lineal  descendant  of  George  Soule,  a  Mayflower  pilgrim,  was  born 
Aug.  29th,  1794,  fitted  for  college  at  Exeter,  and  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  1821. 
His  first  settlement  was  at  Belfast,  and  later  he  took  charge  of  the  academy  in  Bridgton, 
and  was  subsequently  pastor  of  the  church  there.  He  was  afterwards  principal  of  the 
Washington  Academy,  East  Machias,  and  removed  to  Norway  in  1835.  Ten  years  later  he 
moved  to  Portland  and  entered  the  service  of  the  Maine  Missionary  Society.  He  was 
next  pastor  of  the  church  in  Gorham,  and  later  in  Staiidish.  He  then  returned  to  Port 
land  where  he  died  May  31st,  1869.  He  was  a  man  of  scholarly  attainments,  of  fine  liter 
ary  taste,  and  a  ready  writer  in  both  prose  and  poeti'y.  Says  Rev.  William  Warren:  "I 
am  forced  to  speak  aifectionately  of  Charles  Soule.  He  was  my  teacher;  afterwards  my 
parishioner.  He  was  a  complete  man  in  outward  form,  dignity  and  grace  of  manner,  and 
in  mental  and  moral  culture.  His  tastes  were  fine;  his  style  clear  and  sententious,  his 
discriminations  nice,  and  his  logic,  when  he  assumed  to  argue,  was  severe.  His  inquisi 
tive  mind  gave  him  a  fondness  for  scientific  as  well  as  literary  knowledge.  In  these  he 
made  commendable  attainments.  He  had  the  modesty  that  connects  itself  with  genius 
and  rare  excellence.  It  will  be  asked  why  one  with  such  gifts  was  so  little  known. 
There  was  a  tendency  in  Bro.  Soule  to  shrink  from  responsibility  and  observation.  He 
did  not  like  to  come  in  conflict  with  others.  He  seldom  cared  to  measure  his  strength  by 
that  of  opponents.  His  capability  went  far  beyond  his  consciousness  of  it.  He  had  not 
the  toughness  of  nerve  to  encounter  opposition.  He  retired  before  a  foe,  If  what  we 
call  brass  had  equalled  in  his  composition  the  brain  power,  he  would  have  stood  with  the 
first." 

WINTER  STARLIGHT. 

The  earth  lies  buried  in  the  depths  of  snow, 
Man  looks  around  but  does  not  venture  far, — 

The  piercing  winds  with  raging  fury  blow, 
And  fleecy  clouds  obscure  the  twinkling  star. 

But  clouds  though  thick  and  black  shall  never  mar 
Its  brightness — soon  again  the  golden  light, 

To  vapor  gone,  shall  strike  the  watchful  eye, 
The  pallid  whiteness  of  the  starless  night 
Be  lost  in  crystal  spangles  numberless  and  bright. 

The  stars  are  seen — I  view  them  far  on  high, 
I  see  their  light  reflected  from  the  ground, 

And  nature's  brilliant  robes  before  me  lie. 
I  list — but  nought  is  heard — there  is  no  sound 

When  midnight's  awful  stillness  reigns  profound! 
But,  O,  how  cold !    'Mid  all  that's  bright  and  fair 

L  am  not  warmed — in  vain  I  look  around, 
No  aid  is  nigh — and  O,  how  dreadful  are 
These  deadly  chills !  I  sink,  I  die  in  keen  despair ! 

•Still  all  thy  light  is  cold.     No  cheering  ray 

Darts  to  the  inmost  soul  to  kindle  there 
Devout  aspirings  for  the  glorious  day 

It  never  yet  has  seen.     O,  tell  me  where 
Is  seen  the  source  of  light  and  life.     Declare 

If  wisdom  dwells  with  thee  alone — O,  break 
The  cloud  that  hides  the  sun!     Thy  chill  rays  are 

Like  autumn's  noon-beam  from  the  glassy  Cape, 

And  cold  like  winter  starlight  from  the  snowy  flake. 


44  Til  E  !'<>  K  T,s  OF  MAI  A  K. 


Hast  thou  contest  a  hand  to  form  ;ii)d  roll 
The  massive  planets  round  tlu-ir  suns,  and  all 

These  suns  around  the  centre  of  the  whole? 

Hast  thou  looked  down  with  humble  view,  to  call 

The  God — the  present.  (Jod — seen  in  the  small 
Contrivance  of  the  ant,  the  humming  of  the  bee? 

Done  this  and  not  adore,  but  prostrate  tall 
Before  a  God  whose  work  thou  canst  not  see, 
Whose  power  has  not  been  felt — a  God  that  cannot  be! 

Lo!  what  a  glorious  star  is  seen  on  high! 

Hark!  angels  hasten  down,  and  joyful  sing — 
The  Saviour  comes — E.M.M ANTKI/S  born!     They  cry 

"  There's  peace  below."     The  echoing  mountains  ring 
Salvation! — A  world  redeemed  should  grateful  bring 

Its  offerings  to  the  babe  that  shared  the  throne 
Before  creation's  dawn — for  time  shall  wing 

His  flight;  but  He  be  seen,  the  Lord  alone 

And  Him  the  universal  Kix<;  archangels  own! 


lizn  (faoohin  (Llwrnton. 


Mrs.  Eliza  G.  Thornton  was  the  daughter  of  the  lion.  'Dan it1 1  Gookin.  She  was  born 
in  North  Hampton,  N.  H.,  July  23. 17!»f>,  and  was  of  New  England  Puritan  ancestry,  being 
a  lineal  descendant  of  the  Gookins.  Cottons,  Winthrope  and  Dudleys  of  the  Massachu 
setts  Colony.  She  was  educated  under  her  father's  roof,  and  there  acquired  her  great  love 
of  sound  literature  by  nifich  reading  of  the  best  English  classics.  In  January,  1817,  she 
married  Mr.  James  B.Thornton,  of  Saco,  Maine,  and  became  the  mother  of  eleven  chil 
dren.  In  the  midst  of  a  life  faithfully  devoted  to  her  family  duties,  Mrs.  Thornton  cheer 
ed  her  pathway  by  the  pleasant  labor  of  writing  poetry,  which  was  mostly  published  in 
the  "  Christian  Mirror"  and  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger."  Rev.  Dr.  Asa  Cummings 
long  the  editor  of  the  "Christian  Mirror,"  read  her  poems  with  care,  and  he  regarded 
her  as  a  poet  second  to  but  few  women  in  America.  Her  poem,  "  The  National  Eagle  and 
William  Ladd 'The  Apostle  Of  Peace,'"  belongs  to  a  high  place  in  the  poetic  literature 
of  our  country.  The  sentiments  and  style,  of  her  poetry  are  like  her  own  character,  as 
a  woman  and  a  Christian— pure  and  beautiful.  Mrs.  Thornton  died  in  Scarborough,  Me., 
July  27, 1854,  in  the  love  of  every  soul  that  ever  knew  her.  with  these  words  on  her  lips, 
— "How  beaiitifvlix  llcarrn:" 


THE  SWAN   OF  LO(MI  OK..1  II. 

"A  solitary  wild  swan  may  be  seen  on  LochOieh.  He  has  sailed  there  for  twenty  years. 
It  had  a  mate,  but  twenty  years  ago  the  master  of  a  trading  vessel  shot  the  bird.  The 
swan  has  kept  its  solitary  range,  and  has  apparently  no  desire  to  quit  its  wonted  station." 

Beautiful  Bird  of  the  Scottish  lake, 
With  plumage  pure  as  the  white  snow-flake. 
With  neck  of  pride  and  a  wing  of  grace, 
And  lofty  air  as  01  royal  race — 
Beautiful  Bird!  may  you  long  abide, 
And  grace  Loch  Oich  in  your  lonely  pride. 


ELIZA  GOOKIN  THORNTON.  45 


Bright  was  the  breast  of  the  Lake  I  ween, 

Its  crystal  wave  and  its  sapphire  sheen, 

And  bright  its  border  of  shrub  and  tree, 

And  thistle  bloom  in  its  fragraiicy, 

When  to  thy  side  thy  fair  mate  prest, 

Or  skimmed  the  loch  with  her  tintless  breast. 

But  she  is  not ! — and  still  to  thee, 
Are  the  sunny  wave  and  the  shadowing  tree, 
The  mossy  brink  and  the  thistle  flower 
Dear  as  they  were  in  that  blessed  hour? 
What  is  the  spell  on  thy  pinion  thrown 
That  binds  thee  here,  fair  Bird,  alone? 

Does  the  vision  bright  of  thy  peerless  bride 
Still  skim  the  lake  and  press  thy  side? 
And  haunt  the  nook  in  the  fir-tree's  shade? 
And  press  the  moss  in  the  sunny  glade? 
And  has  earth  nothing  to  thee  so  fair 
As  the  gentle  spirit  that  lingers  there? 

Oh!  'tis  a  wondrous  wizard  spell! 
The  human  bosom  its  face  can  tell 
The  heart  forsaken  hath  felt  like  thine, 
A  mystic  web  with  its  fibres  twine, 
Constraining  it  still  in  scenes  to  stay, 
Whence  all  it  treasured  had  passed  away. 

Bird  of  Loch  Oich!  'tis  well,  'tis  well, 
You  yield  your  wing  to  the  viewless  spell; 
Oh  who  would  seek  with  a  stranger  eye, 
For  blooming  shores  and  a  brilliant  sky, 
And  range  the  earth  for  the  hopeless  art 
To  find  a  home  for  a  broken  heart! 

So  would  1  linger,  though  all  alone, 
Where  hallowed  love  its  light  has  thrown, 
And  heath  and  streamlet  and  tree  and  flower, 
Are  linked  in  thought  with  a  happy  hour; 
Home  of  my  heart,  those  scenes  should  be 
As  thy  Loch  Oich,  true  Bird,  to  thee. 


ODE. 

Sung  at  the  semi-centennial  celebration  of  Fryeburg  Academy,  August  18, 1842. 
Where  are  thy  laurels,  Time? — they're  not 

Upon  thy  brow  to-day, 
Though  meet  we  on  this  classic  spot, 


46  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Thy  summons  to  obey; 
Where  are  thy  trophies?  say — 
Since  we  thy  claims  have  not  forgot, 
Show  us  thy  sceptre's  sway. 

Yon  mountains  stand,  as  aye,  sublime, 

Unchanged,  and  fixed,  and  fast; 
Old  Homer's  page  is  in  its  prime — 

Glorious,  and  grand,  and  vast; 

Though  years  have  joined  the  past, 
And  on  hath  rolled  the  car  of  Time, 

Untouched,  unchanged,  they  last. 

And  all  unchanged  do  they  appear, 

Who  once  these  green  haunts  knew — 
Point  not  thy  finger,  Time ! — they  're  here 

With  unchanged  hearts,  and  true; 

Yet  take  the  honors  due — 
Some  brow's  deep  lines— some  ringlet  sere, 

Trophies,  we  yield  to  you. 

Perchance  to  memory's  humid  eye, 

The  good,  green  graves  appear — 
Aye — 'tis  their  blessedness  to  die, 

Who  're  loved  and  treasured  here; 

With  spirit  free,  on  high, 
In  graves  kept  green  by  many  a  tear — 

'T  is  victory  thus  to  die. 

Yet  change  hath  come  by  kindliest  hands — 

Religion,  Science,  Art, 
Have  beauteous  made  these  classic  lands — 

Have  hallowed  mind  and  heart; 

Where  twanged  old  Paugus'  dart, 
And  waved  the  plumes  of  warrior  bands — 

Scarce  has  their  memory  part. 

And  long  as  Kiasarge  shall  climb, 
And  Saco's  stream  shall  flow, 

May  Science,  Taste,  and  Truth  sublime 
*  Make  bright  these  vales  below; 

High  Heaven  its  grace  bestow— 

And  we  by  faith  will  conquer  time, 
And  hopes  immortal  know. 


FATHER  EIPLEY.  47 


THE  XATIOXAL  EAGLE  AND  WILLIAM  LADD.* 

Bird  of  my  Nation's  pride,  'mongst  the  stars  soaring, 
Millions  gaze  on  thy  flight  almost  adoring, 
Freedom  hath  given  thine,  eye  fire  from  her  altar, 
Thou  o'er  the  mountains  free  fliest,  nor  dost  falter. 

In  thy  strong  talon's  grasp  shine  the  red  quivers, 
Keen  as  the  lightning's  fork  that  the  oak  shivers, 
Boldest  thou  thine  olive-branch,  eagle,  as  surely? 
Guardest  thou  well  its  leaf  always  securely? 

One  eye  hath  gazed  011  thee  in  thy  pride  soaring,. 
Care  for  that  beauteous  bough  ever  imploring, 
Vigil  no  longer  that  wearied  eye  keepeth, 
Eagle,  thine  olive-bough  guard  while  he  sleepeth  f 

Proudly  that  eye  of  thine  gloweth  and  flasheth, 
Long'st  thou  thy  wing  to  poise  where  the  steel  clasheth? 
Long'st  thou  thy  beak  to  dip  in  the  red  river? 
Eagle,  thine  olive-branch  grasp  it  forever ! 

Yet,  should  thy  kindling  eye  haughty  foes  madden, 
Yet,  should  thy  lofty  pride  clashing  steel  gladden, 
Droop,  where  the  sleeper  lies  'neath  the  lone  willow, 
Droop,  and  thine  olive-bough  lay  on  his  pillow. 

Sleep,  saint!  the  trumpet's  blast  shall  not  alarm  thee, 
Sleep!  not  a  battle's  shock  ever  shall  harm  thee, 
Sleep !  and  the  war-cry  shall  startle  thee  never, 
Sleep,  "  Child  of  God!"t  thou  art  peaceful  forever. 


>r  of  the  First  Baptist  Church  in  Portland  was- 

Sraduated  at  Brown  University  in  the  class  of 
.  Ripley,  and  was  called  to  Portland  in  Julv 

where  S°r?inatoed7o?S  "'"*  Called  \°n^  Gllf'^  °f  the  Fint  Ba»tist  Church  *  SSSl 
riod  hf , tmovt  t  ^  i  ?i iyt'  M-  *'  >'  ^PPlJ'11^  several  other  churches  for  a  short ;  pe 

riod,  he  removed  to  Nashville,  'lenn.,  and  then,  in  a  few  years,  came  back  to  New  England 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  Portland,  where  among  his  old  parishioners  and 
friends  he  came  to  be  recognized  by  the  affectionate  name  of  "Father  Ki uley  ''  As  a  Jitv 
missionary  he  rendered  very  acceptable  service.  He  passed  away  on  the Ttlfof  May,  187? 

iTQ^n*™1^^  borVn  Exeter,  N.  H.,  in  1778,  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in 
1797,  followed  the  sea  as  ship-master  seven  years,  settled  in  Minot  Maine  a  large  and 
enterprising  farmer,  in  1814,  founded  the  American  Peace  Society  in  1828,  wrote  trS [£t 
?841  °  He^as  a  Arbitration  for  Nations  ever  written  in  America.  He  died  in 

tBlessed  is  the  peacemaker,  for  he  shall  be  called  the  child  of  God.    Matthew  v.  7. 


48  THE  P  OE  TS  O  F  MA  JNE. 


BAPTISMAL  HYMN. 

Oh,  Thou,  who  once  in  Jordan's  wave, 
Wast  buried  by  Thy  servant's  hand, 

Who  didst  the  great  example  leave, 
Look  down  and  bless  this  youthful  band. 

On  them  Thy  Holy  Spirit  pour, 
While  they  Thy  sacred  footsteps  trace ; 

Make  this  to  them  a  heavenly  hour, 
O  fill  their  hearts  with  Thy  rich  grace. 

Buried  with  Thee,  may  they  arise 

To  live  a  life  divinely  new ; 
To  serve  Thee  here,  till  in  the  skies 

Thy  unveiled  presence  they  shall  view. 

O  may  each  one  of  them  at  last, 
Appear  before  Thy  radiant  throne, 

Their  golden  crowns  before  Thee  cast, 
And  ever  praise  the  great  Three-One. 


Geo.  Kent,  a  son  of  Hon.  Win.  A.  Kent,  and  brother  of  the  late  Ex-Governor  Edward 
Kent  of  Bangor,  was  born  at  Concord,  N.  H.,  May  4,  1796,  and  graduated  from  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1814.  He  was  admitted  to  practice.law  in  Boston  in  1817,  and  returning 
immediately  to  his  native  town  he  continued  there  his  profession — a  part  of  the  time 
alone,  and  a  portion  of  the  time  with  a  partner — till  1840;  combining  with  his  profession 
a  greater  part  of  the  time,  the  cashiership  of  the  Concord  Bank.  He  was  twice  elected 
a  member  of  the  N.  H.  Legislature,  and  was  a  trustee  of  Dartmouth  College  from  1837 
to  1840.  For  about  six  years  he  was  editor  and  part  proprietor  of  the  jV.  H.  Statesman 
and  Concord  Register.  Going  west  he  was  for  some  time  in  editorial  charge  of  the  In 
diana  State  Journal.  On  his  return  East  he  was  about  a  year  editor  of  the  Boston 
Daily  Sun.  Later  he  was  appointed  Inspector  in  the  Boston  Custom  House,  and  held 
that  office  some  two  or  three  years.  He  removed  in  1854,  to  Bangor,  and  entered  into 
law  partnership  with  his  brother,  the  late  Ex-Gov.  Kent.  Continuing  in  this  connection 
for  five  or  six  years,  he  was.  in  December,  1861,  appointed  by  President  Lincoln,  U.  S. 
Consul  at  Valencia,  Spain.  Returning  home  after  four  years'  absence,  and  coming  to 
Washington  City  in  1860,  he  was  not  long  after  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  U.  S. 
Treasury  Department,  which  situation  he  held  till  a  year  previous  to  his  death.  He  died 
at*New  Bedford,  Mass.,  Nov.  8, 1884. 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  BASE  OF  NIAGARA  FALLS. 

"  The  voice  of  miny  waters!"  not  the  sound, 

"  Still,  small"  and  waveless,  like  the  voice  that  awed, 

In  solemn  silence,  the  prophetic  ear, 

Betokening  the  unseen  yet  present  God. 

Not  in  the  earthquake  was  the  voice  sublime, 

Though  the  earth  shook  and  trembled  to  its  seat; 

Nor  in  the  whirlwind,  nor  the  fire,  was  felt 

The  hand  divine,  outstretched  o'er  the  expanse. 

Nor  thunder  gave  the  sound — save  that  which  pours 


NEHEMIAH  CLEAVELAND.  49 


Its  ceaseless  rumbling  from  earth's  watery  bed; 
But  there  was  power — deep,  awful,  present  power, 
Pervading  mightiest  hearts — such  as  to  quail 
Man's  proudest  spirit  before  Nature's  God. 
But  for  the  "bow  of  promise,"  midway  stretched — 
Token  of  peace  between  the  earth  and  Heaven — 
The  waste  of  waters  might  have  seemed  a  flood, 
Again  to  drown  a  rebel  world  in  woe. 

Upward  I  gaze — and  through  the  flaky  mist, 

Stretching  its  drapery  o'er  the  giant  brow, 

That  heaves,  at  point  sublime,  its  awful  front, 

I  note  the  mighty  elemental  force, 

Which  needs  but  word  divine  to  whelm  a  world; 

And,  lost  in  wonder,  lose  myself  in  Him, 

Whose  power  no  less  can  stay  the  mighty  mass, 

And  "  hold  it  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand," 

And  say,  and  be  obeyed,  "  Proud  waves  be  still!" 

Freedom  is  imaged  here  in  Nature's  glass, 

"  Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye;" 

These  cliffs  bespeak  its  mountain  home — these  waves 

Murmur  of  largest  liberty  to  man. 

Eternity  is  boded  to  my  view 

By  this  outpouring  from  the  groaning  earth — 

This  ceaseless  war  of  elements,  and  rush 

Of  Nature's  fountains  from  "deep  unto  deep." 

The  arch  above,*  from  my  last  parting  glance, 

Seemed  to  the  wondering  gaze  of  raptured  sight, 

Like  the  periphery  of  Nature's  wheel, 

Revolving  in  mid-heaven's  enlarged  expanse; 

Still  to  roll  on  when  the  last  man  shall  take 

His  farewell  of  a  world  eiiwrapt  in  flame. 


lmvefantt. 


Nehemiah  Cleaveland,  LL.  D.,  of  the  class  of  1813,  Bowdoin  College,  was  born  in  Tops- 
field,  Mass.,  in  1796,  and  died  at  Westport,  April  17,  1877.  He  entered  college  at  the 
early  age  of  thirteen,  and  after  graduation,  taught  school  in  several  towns  of  his  native 
State,  and  at  the  Gorham  Academy  in  this  State.  In  181G  and  1817  he  had  charge  of  the 
Preble  Street  School  in  Portland.  In  1821  he  settled  in  Byfield,  Mass.,  where  he  remain-- 
ed  nineteen  years  as  the  preceptor  of  Dummer  Academy.  In  1839  he  resigned  his  post, 
and  became  professor  of  ancient  languages  in  Philips  Academy,  Exeter,  N.  H.  Prof. 
Cleaveland  twice  visited  Europe.  He  was  the  author  of  several  valuable  memoirs,  and 
wrote  five  volumes,  descriptive  and  historical,  in  regard  to  Greenwood  Cemetery;  also 
"  The  Flowers  Personified,"  a  translation  from  the  French,  in  two  volumes. 

*Not,  of  course,  the  rainbow—  but  that  peculiar  curvature  of  the  descending  water,  so 
apparent,  or  so  easily  imagined,  in  the  American  Fall,  as  viewed  obliquely  from  a  point 
•near  the  foot  of  the  ferry  stairway. 


50  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

AN  All!  CHATEAU. 

How  beauteous  in  the  glowing  west, 
Those  thousand-tinted  isles  that  float; 

On  the  broad  sea  of  light  they  rest, 
Or  pass  to  lovelier  realms  remote. 

Methinks  it  were  a  bliss  to  roam 
Where  those  far  fields  in  beauty  lie ; 

Methinks  there  were  a  welcome  home, 
In  the  soft  clime  of  yonder  sky. 

On  some  bright,  sunny  cloud  I'd  build 
My  palace,  in  the  verge  of  heaven ; 

On  marble  fix  it  firm,  and  gild 
Its  cornices  with  gold  of  even. 

From  amethystine  beds  I'd  draw 
My  blocks  to  shape  its  swelling  dome ; 

Here  should  you  trace  the  old  Doric  law, 
There  the  Corinthian  grace  of  Rome. 

Its  avenues  of  enchanting  sweep, 
Broad  oaks  and  towering  elms  should  stand; 

Blue  lakes  in  placid  stillness  sleep, 
And  currents  roll  o'er  silver  sand. 

Perchance,  to  animate  the  scene, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  art  and  gold, 

Some  spirit,  whose  seraphic  mien 
Should  wear  no  trace  of  earthly  mould — 

Crowning  each  hope,  might  cheer  my  eyes 
With  beauty,  and  with  love  my  heart, 

And  to  my  sky-hung  Paradise, 
Its  last  and  loveliest  charm  impart. 

The  day,  with  her,  more  calm,  more  bright, 
Would  flit  on  silken  wing  away, 

With  her,  the  dark  and  drowsy  night 
Seem  soft  and  cheerful  as  the  day. 

Pensive  we'd  rove  where  scarce  a  ray 
Pierces  the  dun,  o'er-hanging  shade, 

Or,  arm  in  arm,  delighted  stray 
Through  flowery  lawn  and  emerald  glade. 


DANIEL  DANA  TAP  PAN.  51 

The  joys  of  high,  soul-kindling  thought; 

Sweet  converse  at  the  twilight  hour; 
The  pleasures  of  a  life,  untaught 

To  pant  for  wealth  or  sigh  for  power; — 

The  calm  delights  of  lettered  ease ; 

Or  virtuous  toil  the  peaceful  rest;— 
Who  finds  his  bliss  in  such  as  these, 

How  truly  wise,  how  deeply  blest! 

Of  joy, — on  earth,  or  in  the  skies, — 

But  one  perennial  spring  is  found ; 
Deep  in  the  soul  that  fountain  lies, 

And  flowers  of  Eden  fringe  it  round. 


Rev.  Daniel  D.  Tappan,  a  brother  of  William  B.  Tappan,  author  of  the  well-known 
hvmn  "There  is  an  Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest,"  was  born  in Newb uryport,  Mass.,  October 
20  1798.  He  is  an  alumnus  of  Bowdoin  College,  of  the  class  of  1822.  He  studied  the 
ology  at  New  Haven,  Conn.,  and  was  ordained  as  an  evangelist  in  1820,  and  established  as 
pastor  of  a  church  in  Alfred,  Maine.  Among  other  churches  supplied  by  him,  are  those 
of  the  Congregational  denomination  at  Biddeford,  Winthrop  and  Weld,  in  this  State. 
Mr.  Tappan  is  now  residing  in  the  latter  place,  still  preaching  at  times,  having  passed 
more  than  thirty  years  in  regular  pastoral  work. 

AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  by-gone  manners  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  mill', 
The  ways  of  true  and  simple  life, 

The  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne? 

Those  times  that  tried  the  boldest  souls, 

When,  led  by  hand  divine, 
Our  pilgrim  sires  here  sought  a  home; 

Those  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne? 

•      Their  iron  graces, — hearts  of  oak, — 
Men  made  for  work, — not  shine, — 
They  left  their  name;  a  rich  bequest, — 
Those  men  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

And  others,  since,  their  steps  have  tried 

And  influence  left  benign, 
Whose  noble  deeds  will  prove  their  claim 

As  sons  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Long  cherish  we  their  glorious  name, 

Nor,  yet,  the  hope  resign, 
That  years  to  come  shall  emulate 

The  virtues  of  Lang  Syne. 


52  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

Voyagers!  whence  your  last  remove? 

Why  approach  this  sterile  shore? 
Stranger !  leaving  lands  we  love, 

Came  we  here  our  God  to  adore. 

Pilgrims!  terrors  throng  your  way; 

Foes  beset,  011  either  hand ! 
Stranger!  nothing  can  dismay 

Hearts  that  seek  this  barren  strand. 

Pilgrims !  dauntless  though  ye  seem 
Few  and  feeble  yet  ye  are ; 

Stranger,  they  who  trust  in  Him 
Never  of  their  cause  despair. 

Freedom's  banner  here  shall  wave; 

Israel's  helper  here  be  known; 
Myriads,  o'er  our  peaceful  grave, 

Laud  the  work  his  hand  hath  done. 


nach 


Rev.  Enoch  W.  Freeman  was  born  in  Minot.  Me.,  Dec.  16, 1798.  He  fitted  for  college 
at  Hebron  Academy.  In  1827  he  was  ordained  past  or  of  the  Baptist  church  in  New  Glouces 
ter.  The  following  year  he  was  installed  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  church  in  Lowell, 
Mass.,  where  he  continued  to  labor,  beloved  by  all  who  knew  him,  until  his  sudden  and 
mysterious  death,  Sept.  22, 1835. 


IN  THY  TEMPLE,  GEEAT  JEHOVAH. 

In  thy  Temple,  Great  Jehovah ! 

May  our  humble  praises  rise? 
We  in  joyful  strains  adore  Thee, — 

Strains  ascending  to  the  skies; 

With  thanksgiving 
To  our  Sovereign  and  our  Friend. 

Thou  hast  poured  thy  gifts  around  us, 
With  a  liberal,  bounteous  hand ; 

With  thy  goodness  thou  hast  crowned  us ; 
Peace  and  plenty  through  the  land, 
Call  for  praises 

To  thy  great  and  holy  name. 


MARY  I'HEXTIHH.  53 

But  how  high  our  anthems  swelling 

[Should  ascend  before  thy  throne, 
That  from  thine  eternal  dwelling 

Thou  hast  sent  thy  dearest  Son, 

Here  to  suit'er 
For  the  ruined  race  of  men. 

Oil!  assist  us,  ye  bright  choirs! 

Who  surround  the  throne  above! 
Louder  strike  your  golden  lyre's! 

Louder  hymn  redeeming  love! 

Great  Kedeemer, 
Hear  our  thankful  notes  below. 


try 

Daughter  of  Caleb  Prentiss,  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  born  in  Paris,  Dec. 
27th,  1798,  and  died  in  Bangor,  Nov.  16th,  1836.  From  an  obituary,  written  by  the  Hon. 
Edward  Kent,  we  learn  that  her  life  was  one  of  unobtrusive  usefulness  and  conscientious 
discharge  of  duty.  At  the  time  of  the  dedication  of  Mount  Hope  Cemetery  at  Bangor, 
she  was  deeply  interested  in  the  object  anil  the  occasion,  and  in  a  note  to  a  friend,  enclos- 
'ing  the  annexed  verses,  she  says:  "  Ever  since  I  heard  of  the  arrangements  for  the  dedi 
cation  of  Mount  Hope,  I  have  imagined  myself  dead  and  buried  there.  I  send  you  the 
fruit  of  my  strange  imaginings."  At  that  period,  and  until  a  short  time  before  her  death 
her  health  was  excellent.  The  stanzas  are  entitled: 


A  SPIRIT  AT  MOUNT  HOPE. 

I  am  no  more;  a  child  of  earth, 
My  spirit  from  its  clay  hath  fled ; 

And  yet  I  linger  round  the  spot, 

Where  they  have  made  my  low,  last  bed. 

The  strong,  deep  wish  to  be  beloved, 
Has  not  departed  with  my  breath ; 

It  had  its  origin  in  heaven, 
And  was  too  pure  to  yield  to  death. 

I  see  the  tears  the  mourners  shed, 
I  catch  the  murmur  of  their  sighs; 

And  through  their  long  and  weary  days, 
I  watch  them  with  my  spirit  eyes. 

My  home  is  in  a  better  world 

Of  ceaseless  bloom  and  cloudless  light; 
And  the  soiled  robe  I  wore  below, 

Is  changed  for  one  of  spotless  white. 


54  THE  P  OE  TS  O  F  MA  1NE. 


Deck  then  my  grave  with  earth's  frail  flowers, 
And  teach  the  mourning  trees  to  bend  • 

But  do  not  water  them  with  tears, 
Plume  the  soul's  pinions  to  ascend. 

If  it  is  bliss  e'en  here  to  mount. 
Where  we  must  bear  the  heavy  chain 

Which  checks  us  in  our  highest  flight, 
And  drags  us  to  the  earth  again, — 

Think  of  the  soul  with  nought  to  clog, 
With  nought  to  dim  its  eagle  sight; 

Forever  drinking  in  new  joy, 
Forever  catching  some  new  light. 

If  this  dark  stream  is  beautiful, 
Which  waters  but  an  earthly  clod, 

Think  what  must  be  that  purer  one 
Which  sparkles  from  the  throne  of  God. 

Oh,  dry  your  tears,  no  longer  weep, 
The  grave  is  not  a  gloomy  place; 

Religion  sheds  a  radiance 
Which  every  lingering  cloud  should  chase. 


homts 


Thomas  Cogswell  Upliam.LL.  I).,  who  graduated  from  Dartmouth  College  in  1818,  was 
born  in  1799,  in  Deertield,N.  H.,  where  his  grandfather,  the  Rev.  Timothy  IJpham,  Avas 
minister.  His  father,  a  man  of  excellent  qualities  and  beneficent  influence,  was  a  trad 
er  at  Rochester,  N.  H.  Thomas  C.  went  directly  from  college  to  the  Divinity  School  at 
Andover,  and  at  the  end  of  the  three  years'  course  was  selected  by  Prof.  Stuart  to  be  his 
assistant  in  the  department  of  Hebrew.  Soon  after  this  appeared  his  translation  of 
"  Julius'  Archaeology,"  abridged,  which  went  through  several  editions  in  this  country 
and  in  England.  Since  then,  Prof.  Upham  has  published  many  and  important  works, 
among  which  is  a  series  of  poems  entitled  "  American  Cottage  Life."  He  was  called  to 
the  chair  of  mental  and  moral  philosophy  in  Bpwdoin  College  in  Sept.  ,1824,  and  filled 
that  important  post  till  18G7,  when  he  resigned  his  professorship  and  removed  to  Kenne- 
bunk,  and  soon  after  to  New  York.  He  died  in  that  city,  April,  1872,  and  his  remains 
were  brought  to  Brunswick  and  interred  in  the  college  cemetery.  His  last  work,  pub 
lished  in  the  year  following  his  death,  was  entitled  "  The  Absolute  Religion." 


THE  LANDSCAPE. 

I  climbed  the  rude  hills  at  the  closing  of  day. 

And  marked  with  delight,  ere  the  sunbeams  withdrew, 

The  landscape  below,  in  the  distance  that  lay, 
And  brightly  expanded  its  charms  to  my  view. 


THOMAS  COGSWELL  UP  HAM.  55 


The  smoke  from  the  cottage  was  curling  beneath, 
The  cottage  half-hid  in  the  trees  from  mine  eye; 

While  the  clouds  caught,  in  many  a  silvery  wreath, 
The  gleams  that  were  purest  and  brightest  of  dye. 

The  wild  birds  were  talking  in  leaf  and  in  nest; 

The  brook  sang  aloud  with  its  music  divine ; 
And  far  in  the  vale  that  sloped  down  to  the  west 

Was  the  bleating  of  sheep  and  the  lowing  of  kine. 

'T  was  lonely  and  rugged,  the  place  where  I  stood, 
But  pleasures  came  over  my  heart  in  a  throng; 

The  shout  from  the  huntsman  arose  from  the  wood, 
And  I  heard  in  the  distance  the  shepherd-boy's  song. 


THE  AMERICAN   FARMER. 

The  thoughtful  farmer  reads  the  Sacred  Book, 

Then,  with  the  wife  and  children  of  his  heart, 
With  mind  serene,  and  reverential  look, 

He  humbly  kneels,  as  is  the  Christian's  part, 
And  worships  Thee,  Our  Father,  Thee,  who  art 

The  good  man's  hope,  the  poor  man's  only  stay; 
Who  hast  a  balm  for  sorrow's  keenest  dart, 

A  smile  for  those  to  thee  who  humbly  pray, 
Which,  like  the  morning  sun,  drives  every  cloud  away. 

Thou  Lord  of  heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

Our  Maker  and  our  Guide,  our  hope,  our  all ! 
Be  thou  the  farmer's  friend.     In  want  and  woe, 

Teach  him  to  look  to  thee,  on  thee  to  call; 
Nor  let  his  steps  in  error's  pathway  fall. 

With  him  preserve  his  loved,  his  native  land ; 
In  innocence  and  honor  let  her  stand; 

And  centuries  yet  to  come,  oh,  hold  her  in  thy  hand ! 


THE  LIVING  FOUNTAIN. 

I  hear  the  tinkling  camel's  bell 
Beneath  the  shade  of  Ebal's  mount, 

And  man  and  beast,  at  Jacob's  well, 
Bow  down  to  taste  the  sacred  fount. 

Samaria's  daughter,  too,  doth  share 
The  draught  that  earthly  thirst  can  quell ; 

But  who  is  this  that  meets  her  there? 
What  voice  is  this  at  Jacob's  well? 


86  THE  POETX  OF  MAINE. 

"Ho!  ask  of  inc.,  and  I  will  give, 
From  my  own  life,  thy  life's  supply; 

I  am  the  fount!  drink,  drink  and  live; 
Xo  more  to  thirst,  no  more  to  die!" 

Strange,  mystic  words,  but  words  of  Heaven; 

And  they  who  drink  to-day,  as  then, 
To  them  shall  inward  life  be  given; 

Their  xotilx  xlt«ll  no'cr  tltirxl  <KJ<UH! 


THE  Gl.'KATNKSS  OF  LOVE. 

Go,  count  the  sands  that  form  the  earth, 
Go,  count  the  drops  that  make  the  sea; 

Go,  count  the  stars  of  heavenly  birth, 
And  tell  me  what  their  number  be; 
And  thou  shalt  know  love's  mystery. 

No  measurement  hath  yet  been  found, 
No  lines  nor  numbers,  that  can  keep 

The  sum  of  its  eternal  round, 
The  plummet  of  its  endless  deep, 
Or  heights,  to  which  its  glories  sweep. 

Yes,  measure  love,  when  thou  canst  tell 
The  lands  where  seraphs  have  not  trod, 

The  heights  of  heaven,  the  depths  of  hell, 
And  laid  thy  finite  measuring-rod 
On  the  infinitude  of  God. 


Eldest  sou  of  Chief  Justice  Mellen,  represented  in  early  pages  of  this  volume;  born  in 
Biddeford,  June  10, 1799,  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1818,  settled  in  Portland  in  1823; 
afterwards  removed  to  North  Yarmouth,  where  he  remained  five  years;  died  in  New 
York,  Sept.  5,  1841,  where  his  grave  is  now  unknown.  Author  of  "  The  Martyr's  Tri 
umph,"  many  odes,  lyrics,  and  a  volume  of  tales  in  prose.  He  was  the  intimate  of  the 
first  literary  men  in  America,  and  his  writings  had  a  wide  circulation  and  were  univer 
sally  popular.  Mr.  Mellen's'ttrst  articles  were  contributed  to  the  United  States  Literary 
Gazette,  published  at  Cambridge,  Mass.  He  was  deeply  and  devotedly  attached  to  his 
young  and  afiectionate  wife,  who  died  within  three  years  after  their  marriage,  and  his 
only  child  followed  her  to  the  grave  in  the  succeeding  spring.  From  this  time  his  life 
was  clouded  with  melancholy.  Of  his  many  poems  the  tribute  to  the  courage  and  devo 
tion  of  the  early  New  England  settlers,  is  one  of  his  best. 


TWO  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 

Make  your  harp's  music  louder,  higher — 

And  pour  your  strains  along, 
And  smite  again  each  quivering  wire 

In  all  the  pride  of  song. 


GH-EN  VILLE  MELLEN.  57 


Shout  like  the  daring  men  of  old, 

Who,  facing  storm  and  foe, 
On  this  blessed  soil  their  anthems  rolled 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

From  native  shores  by  tempests  driven, 

They  sought  a  purer  sky, 
And  found  beneath  a  milder  heaven 

The  home  of  Liberty. 
An  altar  rose — and  prayers — a  ray 

Broke  on  their  night  of  woe, 
The  harbinger  of  Freedom's  day, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

They  clung  around  that  symbol,  too, 

Their  refuge  and  their  all, 
And  swore  while  skies  and  waves  were  blue 

That  altar  should  not  fall. 
They  stood  upon  the  red  man's  sod, 

'Neath  heaven's  impillared  bow, 
With  home,  a  country,  and  a  God, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Oh!  'twas  a  hard,  unyielding  fute 

That  drove  them  to  the  seas, 
And  persecution  strove  with  hate 

To  darken  her  decrees. 
But  safe  above  each  coral  grave 

Each  blooming  ship  did  go; 
For  G-od  was  on  the  Western  wave 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

They  knelt  them  on  the  desert  sand, 

By  waters  cold  and  rude, 
Alone  upon  the  dreary  strand 

Of  ocean  solitude. 
They  looked  upon  the  high  blue  air 

And  felt  their  spirits  glow, 
Resolved  to  live  or  perish  there, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

The  warrior's  red  right  arm  was  bared, 

His  eyes  flashed  deep  and  wild; 
Was  there  a  foreign  footstep  dared 

To  seek  his  wife  and  child? 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  dark  chiefs  yelled  alarm  and  swore 
The  white  man's  blood  should  flow, 

And  his  hewn  bones  should  bleach  their  shore, 
Two  hundred  years  ago. 

But  lo!  the  warrior's  eye  grew  dim, 

His  arm  was  left  alone, 
The  still  black  wild  which  sheltered  him 

No  longer  was  his  own. 
Time  fled,  and  011  the  hallowed  ground 

His  highest  pride  lies  low, 
And  the  cities  swell  where  forests  frowned, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Oh !  stay  not  to  recount  the  tale — 

'Twas  bloody  and  'tis  past, 
The  firmest  cheek  may  well  grow  pale. 

To  hear  it  to  the  last. 
The  God  of  Heaven  who  prospers  us 

Could  bid  a  nation  grow, 
And  shield  us  from  the  red  man's  curse, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Come,  then,  great  shades  of  glorious  men, 

From  your  still  glorious  graves, 
Look  on  your  own  proud  land  again, 

O  bravest  of  the  brave ! 
We  call  you  from  each  mould' ring  tomb 

And  each  blue  wave  below, 
To  bless  the  world  ye  snatched  from  doom, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Then  to  your  harps — yet  louder,  higher, 

And  pour  your  strains  along, 
And  smite  again  each  quivering  wire 

In  all  the  pride  of  song. 
Shout  like  those  God-like  men  of  old, 

Who,  daring  storm  and  foe, 
On  this  blest  soil  their  anthem  rolled. 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

Mount  of  the  clouds,  on  whose  Olympian  height 
The  tall  rocks  brighten  in  the  ether  air. 

And  spirits  from  the  skies  come  down  at  night 
To  chant  immortal  song  to  Freedom  there ! 


WILLIAM  BICKER   WALTER. 


There  is  the  rock  of  other  regions,  where 
The  world  of  life  which  blooms  so  far  below 

Sweeps  a  wide  waste ;  no  gladdening  scenes  appear, 
Save  where  with  silvery  flash  the  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  far  off  mountain,  distant,  calm,  and  slow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or  eddying  wildly  round  thy  cliffs  are  borne ; 

Where  Tempest  mounts  his  rushing  car,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home ! 

Far  down  the  deep  ravine  the  whirlwinds  come, 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along; 

While,  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb, 
The  storms  come  forth,  and  hurrying  darkly  on, 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks,  the  revelry  prolong ! 

And  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled, 
And  quenched  in  silence  is  all  tempest  flame, 

There  come  the  dim  forms  of  the  mighty  dead, 
Around  the  steep  that  bears  the  hero's  name! 

The  stars  look  down  upon  them;  and  the  same- 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave 

Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 
And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave, 
The  richest,  purest  tear  that  memory  ever  gave ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds !  when  winter  round  thee  throws 

The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year, 
Sublime  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows, 

Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  appear! 
'T  is  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  fear, 

Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue ; 
When  lo !  in  softened  grandeur,  far,  yet  clear, 

Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  harmonious  hue, 

To  swell  as  Freedom's  home  on  man's  unclouded  view. 


nllidm  jjtuher 


Born  about  1800,  and  grandson  of  Rev.  William  Walter,  I).  I).,  an  Episcopal  clergyman 
of  note.  William  was  fitted  for  college  at  Wiscasset  by  that  good  man  and  excellent 
teacher,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Packard.  He  graduated  from  Bowd'oin  College  in  the  class  of  1818, 
and  soon  after  published  a  small  volume  of  poems.  "Fanny,"  the  beautiful  production 
of  Mr.  Halleck,  was  about  this  time  claiming  popular  attention,  and  Mr.  Walter  essayed 
an  imitation  in  a  poem  which  he  called"  Sukey."  On  taking  the  Master's  degree  at  Bruns 
wick,  in  1821,  he  entertained  the  audience  with  a  poem  styled  the  "  Dream  of  the  Sepul 
chre."  In  1822  he  went  into  the  Southern  States  with  the  view  of  giving  lectures  on  po 
etry,  etc.,  having  given  up  taking  orders  in  the  Episcopal  Church.  He  died  suddenly  in 
Charleston,  S.  C.,  in  the  spring  of  1823.  It  is  probable  that  Boston  was  his  native  place. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


FAIRY  LAND. 

Sometimes  we  wander  to  the  Fairy  Land, 
Where  the  soul  dances  and  her  wings  expand ; — 
Fair  Land!— its  turf  all  brightened  o'er  with  flowers, 
And  dewy  shrubbery,  and  moonlight  bowers, 
Retreat  of  glittering  Fancy's  vagrant  powers. 

Fair  Heaven! — where  many  colored  clouds  enfold 

Bright  islets  floating  in  the  sea  of  gold ! 

Proud  domes  and  palaces  are  shining  there, 

With  ivory  columns,  gemmed  with  fire-stained  spar! 

There  wanton  Zephyrs  dance  on  budding  flowers, 

And  waft  the  fragrant  leaves  in  sunny  showers ; — 

By  sunny  banks,  the  silver  waters  whirl 

A  wildering  music  o'er  their  sands  of  pearl; 

And  birds  are  singing  from  their  star-lit  bowers, 

To  lull  the  sleeping  of  the  blue-eyed  Hours ! 

Light  things  are  flitting  in  this  world  of  air; 

Gay  creatures  born  of  thought,  and  dwelling  there ; 

The  Elfin  race,  who  bathe  in  dews  of  morn, 

And  climb  the  rainbow  of  the  summer  storm, — 

Floating  about,  in  thinnest  robes  of  light, 

From  meteors  caught,  that  shoot  along  the  night. 

Crowns  studdied  o'er  with  gems,  their  brows  adorn, 

Stole  from  the  eyelids  of  the  waking  morn ! 

They  wave  bright  sceptres  wrought  of  moonlight  beams, 

And  spears  of  crystal,  tinged  with  lightning  gleams! 

Young  naked  loves  are  sporting  on  the  main, 
Or  glide  on  clouds  along  the  ethereal  plain! 
Their  snowy  breasts,  floating  the  waves  among, 
Are  kissed  by  shapes  of  light,  and  swim  along 
In  liquid  sapphire — with  their  humid  locks 
Dropping  thick  diamonds  o'er  the  mossy  rocks!— 
The  sea-green  realm  is  all  with  emeralds  shining, 
With  rainbow  arches  o'er  the  depths  reclining!— 

And  other  skies  are  deeply  rolling  under 

With  clouds  of  trembling  flame  and  slumbering  thunder! 

And  minstrels  blow  their  horns  of  tulip  flowers! 

I'n  echoes  softly  from  their  air-borne  towers, 

Floats  back  the  music,  with  a  dreamy  sound,— 

A  dove-winged  presence,  hovering  around! 

Visions  of  Joy,  in  sun-robed  garments  sporting — 

Dear  Loves,  with  gay  looks  in  green  pathways  courting ! 


ZADOC  LONG.— IRA  BERRY.  61 


§<idoc  f  mtg. 

Hon  Zadoc  Long  who  fitted  for  college  at  Hebron  Academy,  was  born  in  Middleborough, 
Mass.  Jan.,  1801,  and  died  at  Buckfield,  Me.,  Jan  31,  1873.  He  was  the  father  of  Hon. 
John  I).  Long,  Ex-Gov.  of  Mass.,  and  identified  with  the  village  of  Buckfield  from  the 
time  of  his  removal  from  Mass,  to  that  place,  in  1806.  He  engaged  in  trade  at  an  early 
age  and  continued  in  it  till  1838,  when  he  retired  from  active  business,  having  acquired 
a  handsome  property.  In  the  year  named,  he  received  a  plurality  of  votes  as  the  Whig 
candidate  for  Representative  to  Congress,  and  in  1840  was  chosen  a  Presidential  elector. 
He  was  a  man  of  rare  intellectual  ability,  a  ready  and  fluent  writer,  and  many  of  his  po 
ems  were  published  in  the  papers  of  the  day,  being  remarkable  for  their  ease  of  versifica 
tion,  their  simple  truth  and  beauty,  and  for  the  tender  humanity  which  was  a  marked 
feature  of  his  character. 


MY  OLD  VIOLIN. 

While  evening's  dim  folds  round  me  gather  fast, 

And  the  chill  breezes  chant  a  low  moan, 
My  fancy  is  busy  with  scenes  of  the  past, 

As  I  sit  by  my  fireside  alone. 

The  group  that  once  cheered  me  affection  recalls ; 

Beloved  ones  I  ask,  where  are  they? 
My  own  voice  comes  back  from  the  echoing  walls, 

And  sadly  repeats, —  Where  are  they? 

A  sound  like  a  serenade,  plaintive  and  sweet, 

An  almost  inaudible  strain, 
Now  rises  and  swells  into  tones  more  complete, 

Now  sinks  away  softly  again. 

It  seems  like  the  spirit  of  many  a  lay — 

A  voice  from  the  past  that  I  hear, 
In  lingering  cadences  dying  away, 

On  memory's  faltering  ear. 

Or  the  music  of  dreams  in  the  stillness  of  night, 

By  some  spirit  guardian  sung; — 
'Tis  the  air  through  the  cracks,  and  the  vibrations  slight 

Of  my  old  violin,  all  unstrung. 

How  many  a  cherished  remembrance  it  brings 

Of  dear  friends  and  pastimes  of  yore! 
A  sorrowful  touch  on  the  heart's  shattered  strings, 

That  soon  will  respond  never  more! 


Born  in  New  Durham,  N.  H.,  Sept.  23, 1801;  apprenticed  to  John  Mann,  in  Dover,  N.  H., 
1818;  came  to  Portland  in  1824,  and  worked  on  the  Argus,  under  Thomas  Todd.  On  the  same 
month  of  his  marriage,— which  occurred  Dec.  1,  1831,  at  Hingham,  Mass.,  to  Lydia  M.  Ho- 
bart.of  Hingham,— he  started  the  "  Aye"  at  Augusta,  with  F.  O.  J.  Smith,  at  the  first 
meeting  of  the  Legislature  there.  In  1834  he  sold  the  "  Age"  and  became  joint  partner 
with  Holden  on  the  Argus.  He  published  the  Gospel  Banner,  at  Augusta,  in  1839;  the 


62  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"  Argus  Revived"  at  Portland  in  1839-40;  then  published  the  "Amulet"  and  the  Eastern 
Farmer.  March  19, 1844,  he  started  the  Norway  Adrerti^r.  In  the  fall  of  1845  he  went 
to  Boston,  and  assisted  in  putting  up  the  first  telegraph  line  there  and  became  manager 
of  the  Boston  office.  Returned  to  Portland  in  1848,  as  manager  of  the  Portland  office  and 
assistant  editor  of  the  "Daily  Umpire,"  starting  a  job  office  in  1863.  Mr. Berry  printed 
sheet  music  early  in  the  fifties.  In  1855-56  was  elected  Grand  Secretary  of  the  Masons.which 
soon  absorbed  all  of  his  time,  and  he  continues  in  that  position  to  the  present  time  be 
ing  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  service  in  the  country. 


THE  ANDROSCOGGIN. 
The  "soft-flowing  Avon,"  the  "arrowy  Rhone," 

The  Tweed,  and  the  Tagus,  and  bright  Guadalquiver, 
And  many  besides,  have  been  widely  made  known 

By  poets,  each  praising  his  own  beloved  river. 
The  track  where  the  sovereigns  of  song  went  ahead 

Is  a  puzzling  position  to  place  a  poor  dog  in; 
Yet  I  deem,  with  submission,  a  word  may  be  said, 

Or  sung,  in  the  praise  of  our  own  Androscoggin. 

For  rich  verdant  meadows,  and  soft,  purling  rills, 

Sweet  copses  and  glades  for  the  free  forest  rover — 
For  beautiful  villages,  cradled  by  hills, 

And  falls  so  majestic,  with  rainbows  arched  over — 
For  scenery  that  just  admiration  commands — 

For  ice,  and  for  freshets,  for  milling,  and  loggin', 
For  rocks,  ripples,  rapids — for  shallows,  and  sands, 

We  surely  may  boast  of  the  swift  Androscoggin. 

Would  you  view  Nature  clad  in  her  freshest  attire, 

Admire  her  gay  freaks  and  her  good-humored  sallies, 
Enjoy  the  emotions  her  works  can  inspire, 

See  her  strength  in  the  hills,  and  her  grace  in  the  valleys ; 
Would  you  climb  the  steep  mountain,  ride,  run,  walk,  or  swim, 

Go  ducking,  or  musquashing,  fishing,  or  froggin', 
Get  "gun  and  equipments"  in  sportsmanlike  trim, 

And  be  off  to  the  banks  of  the  fair  Androscoggin. 

ou  '11  meet  not — which  haply  to  you  may  seem  strange — 

The  smart  city  belle,  and  the  dandy  so  tippy, 
Nor  savages,  such  as  the  wilderness  range, 

And  lave  their  dark  limbs  in  the  far  Mississippi; 
Nor  those  who — the  victims  of  moral  disease — 

Haunt  bar-rooms,  swap  horses,  blaspheme,  and  suck  grog  in, 
These  are  not  the  beings — O!  nothing  like  these — 

Who  dwell  on  the  banks  of  the  bright  Androscoggin. 

No! — men  of  warm  hearts  and  free  spirits  are  there, 
And  maidens  with  eyes  like  dark  flowers  with  the  dew  in  'em — 

(Let  warm-blooded,  "fancy  free"  strangers  beware, 
One  glance  from  such  eyes  is  sufficient  to  ruin  'em) — 


IE  A  BERRY. 


Their  looks  are  the  bright  ones  we  love  to  survey ; 

And  in  absence  they  often  will  memory  be  joggin', 
Their  smiles  must  the  ice  of  the  heart  melt  away, 

As  the  sun  thaws  the  frost  from  thy  meads,  Aiidroscoggin. 

Then,  away,  where  so  gaily  the  fair  river  flows 

Through  lands  decked  by  Nature  with  lovely  variety — 
Hearts,  warm  as  their  sunshine,  and  pure  as  their  snows, 

Shall  greet  you,  and  banish  all  dread  of  satiety; 
And  Memory  shall  chronicle  nought  that  offends, 

Nor  the  clay  of  regret  be  her  wagon  wheels  cloggin', 
When  backward  she  journeys,  to  visit  the  friends 

Who  people  the  region  of  loved  Androscoggin. 


SPRING. 

Hark!  'tis  the  blue-bird's  sprightly  note;  how  blithely  does  he  sing; 

Sweet  bird,  the  earliest  voice  is  thine,  to  hail  returning  Spring: 

And  true  to  thy  prophetic  song,  in  all  her  charms  arrayed, 

Warm  from  the  glowing  southern  climes  where  long — too  long — she 

stayed, 

She  comes,  o'er  our  less  sunny  realm  to  re-assume  her  reign; 
Delight  and  Beauty,  hand  in  hand,  trip  smiling  in  her  train; 
Around  her  breezes  softly  play,  the  sky  is  bright  above, 
And  all  the  universe  seems  filled  with  sympathy  and  love. 

The  mighty  Sea's  majestic  waves  in  anger  roll  no  more, 

But  gently  bow  their  crested  heads  to  kiss  the  pebbled  shore; 

The  frosty-bosomed  Lakes,  that  long  the  Sun  in  vain  had  wooed,. 

Dissolve  in  tenderness,  at  length,  by  generous  warmth  subdued ;. 

The  Rivers,  that  with  icy  arms  embraced  th'  imprisoned  isles, 

Relax  their  rigid  features  now,  and  dimple  into  smiles ; 

The  Brooks  leap  laughing  from  the  hills,  like  some  delighted  boy, 

Or  through  the  meadows  playful  run,  and  murmur  forth  their  joy.. 

The  Snow  that  held  the  land  in  thrall,  in  floods  of  grief  expires;, 

Stern  Winter  sees  his  reign  is  o'er,  and  sullenly  retires, — 

And,  watching  his  departing  steps,  'tis  beautiful  to  see 

The  timid  buds  peep  gaily  out  from  every  shrub  and  tree. 

The  glorious  Sun  looks  down,  benign,  upon  the  frost-chilled  earth,. 

As  he  would  warm  and  smile  a  new  creation  into  birth ; 

And,  quick,  beneath  his  genial  ray,  the  freshening  verdure  starts, 

As  kin  Iness  wins  affection  forth  from  pure  and  trusting  hearts. 


<54  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  Cowslip  and  the  Violet  their  modest  leaves  unfold,— 

The  Dandelion  strews  the  globe  with  specks  of  living  gold; 

The  spirit  of  the  parted  year  is  rising  from  its  tomb, 

And  bursting  forth  in  countless  forms  of  loveliness  and  bloom. 

O!  who  can  look  around,  nor  fed  each  impulse  of  his  soul 

Ascend  in  gratitude  to  Him  who  bids  the  seasons  roll, — 

Whose  power  with  beauty  decks  the  field,  with  verdure  clothes  the  sod? 

Sure,  he  who  studies  Nature"1*  book,  MUST  WORSHIP  NATURE'S  GOD. 


Rufus  Hanscom  was  born  In  Gorham,  Maine,  about  Dec.  25, 1801,  and  died  in  that  town, 
away  from  liis  home,  Nov.  '20, 1873.  In  his  boyhood  he  attended  the  district  school,  and, 
later,  Gorham  Academy,  under  the  preeeptorship  of  the  Rev.  Reuben  Nason.  He  became* 
a  teacher  in  public  and  private  schools  in  Gorham  and  the  neighboring  towns.  He  was 
kind  and  benevolent  to  all,  and  often  expended  more  money  in  books  and  stationery  for 
the  use  of  children  whose  parents  were  poor,  than  was  profitable  to  himself .  His  old 
pupils,  such  as  are  now  living,  cherish  Iris  memory  almost  to  a  degree  of  reverence. 
He  was  the  best  mathematical  scholar  in  Gorham,  and  as  good  as  any  in  the  State,  as 
problems  were  sent  to  him  for  solution  from  Bowdoin  College,  that  could  not  be  solved 
there,  and  from  other  institutions  of  learning.  He  was  a  great  admirer  of  poetry,  and 
among  his  favorite  authors  were  Pope,  Cowper  and  Burns.  Pie  was  a  lover  of  the  beau 
tiful  and  sublime  in  nature,  and  being  of  a  contemplative  turn  of  mind,  he  often  employ 
ed  his  pen  to  give  expression  to  his  thoughts  and  feelings  in  verse.  The  following  are 
samples  of  his  style: 


MY  NATIVE  LAM). 

I  sing  of  thee,  my  native  land, 
Where'  er  my  feet  may  roam ; 

Asylum  of  the  Pilgrim  bund, 
And  Freedom's  happy  home. 

I  sing  of  thee,  New  England  dear, 
Thy  mountains  and  thy  plains; 

No  monarch  sways  his  sceptre  here, 
No  haughty  despot  reigns. 

Thy  forests,  waving  in  the  breeze, 

In  graceful  order  stand ; 
Thy  canvas  floats  o'er  distant  seas, 

And  visits  every  land. 

Here  Ceres  waves  the  shining  ear, 
O'er  hills  and  valleys  green, 

And  fair  Pomona's  fruits  appear, 
To  grace  the  smiling  scene. 

No  slave  is  here  compelled  to  toil 
Beneath  Oppression's  woe, 

But  freemen  till  the  fertile  soil, 
And  reap  the  fields  they  sow. 


JUTFUS  It  A  NSC  ON.  65 


Fair  Science  rears  her  temples  high, 

To  all  her  light  is  given ; 
And  Bethlehem's  Star  illumes  the  sky, 

And  lights  the  path  to  heaven. 

Till  Time  shall  wing  his  flight  no  more, 

Nor  Sol  the  seasons  hring, 
Thy  light  shall  shine  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  hards  thy  praises  sing. 


MA  TERN  AL  IN  FLUEN  CE. 

'T  is  woman  rules  with  gentle  sway, 
And  moulds  the  tender  mind; 

Her  subjects  cheerfully  obey 
Her  laws  by  love  refined. 

Sweet  as  the  strains  by  angels  sung, 

That  captivate  the  soul, 
The  law  of  kindness  on  her  tongue, 

Sways  with  supreme  control. 

When  sorrow's  clouds  are  gathering  nigh, 

To  veil  the  shining  day, 
^Tis  hers  to  spread  a  clearer  sky 

And  smile  the  gloom  away. 

'Tis  woman  cheers  the  vale  of  earth, 

And  bids  the  flowers  to  rise, 
But  man  may  never  tell  her  worth, 

Nor  angels  in  the  skies. 


THE  EXILE. 

The  summer  sun  was  shining  clear, 
And  cheerful  was  the  day, 

When  slowly  came  an  Exile  near, 
As  on  his  lonely  way. 

I  asked  him  why  that  plaintive  sigh 
On  this  bright  morning  clear ; 

He  paused  and  made  me  this  reply,  - 
No  friends  for  me  are  here. 

The  lovely,  blooming  flowers  I  see, 
The  cheerful  streamlet  flows; 

But  ah !  they  speak  in  tones  to  me 
None  but  the  Exile  knows. 


66  TEIK  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


No  father's  tender  voice  I  hear, 

No  mother's  smile  I  see, 
No  brother  here,  or  sister  clear, 

In  this  wide  world  for  me ! 

But  where  are  those  who  cheered  thy  path, 

In  childhood's  sunny  hours? 
They've  fallen  like  the  Autumn  leaf, 

Or  like  the  early  flowers. 

Then,  stranger,  ask  not  why  I  sigh, 

This  fair  and  lovely  day; 
The  sweet  wild  flowers  are  blooming  nigh, 

But  friends  are  far  away. 

The  tuneful  songsters  cheer  the  grove 

With  many  a  joyous  lay; 
But  I've  no  friends  to  share  my  love, 

Or  cheer  my  lonely  way. 


Son  of  Hon.  Levi  Cutter,  Mayor  of  Portland  from  1834  to  1840,  inclusive.  Born  in  North. 
Yarmouth  in  1801,  his  early  years  were  spent  in  Portland.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin, 
with  the  highest  honors  of  his  class,  in  1821;  studied  theology  at  Andover,  but  left  on 
account  of  a  disease  of  the  eyes;  passed  a  winter  in  Guadaloupe;  went  into  mercan 
tile  pursuits  in  Portland,  hut  meeting  with  reverses,  removed  to  New  York.  Mr.  Cutter, 
in  1828,  married  Margaret  Dicks,  of  Portland.  He  made  numerous  contributions  to  peri 
odic  literature,  was  also  a  bank  clerk,  and  real  estate  broker.  As  a  writer  his  pen  evinc 
ed  equal  fertility  and  grace,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  in  that  line  he  was  long  distin 
guished.  He  wrote  lives  of  Gen.  Putnam  and  Gen.  Lafayette,  and  contributed  to  sev 
eral  Annuals.  For  many  years  he  resided  in  the  rural  outskirts  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  He 
died  in  1867. 


THE  VALUE  OF  LITTLE  THINGS. 

What  if  the  little  rain  should  say, 

"  So  small  a  drop  as  1 
Can  ne'er  refresh  the  thirsty  earth, 

I '11  tarry  in  the  sky!" 

What  if  a  shining  beam  of  noon 

Should  in  its  fountain  stay, 
Because  its  feeble  light  alone 

Is  not  enough  for  day! 

Doth  not  each  rain-drop  help  to  form 
The  cool  refreshing  shower? 

And  every  ray  of  light  to  warm 
And  beautify  the  flower? 


WILLIAM  CUTTER.  67 


THE  ONE  TALENT. 

TO   EVERY   MAN   ACCORDING    TO    HIS    SEVERAL    ABILITY." 

Hide  not  thy  talent  in  the  earth, 

However  small  it  be, 
Its  faithful  use,  its  utmost  worth, 

He  will  require  of  thee. 

The  humblest  service  rendered  here 

He  will  as  truly  own, 
As  Paul's,  in  his  exalted  sphere, 

Or  Gabriel's,  near  the  throne. 

The  cup  of  water  kindly  given, 

The  widow's  cheerful  mites, 
Are  worthier,  in  the  eye  of  Heaven, 

Than  pride's  most  costly  rites. 

His  own,  which  he  hath  lent  on  trust, 

He  asks  of  thee  again; 
Little  or  much,  the  claim  is  just, 

And  thine  excuses  vain. 

Go,  then,  and  strive  to  do  thy  part — 

Though  humble  it  may  be, 
The  ready  hand,  the  willing  heart, 

Are  all  Heaven  asks  of  thee. 


"I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY." 

"I  would  not  live  alway!"  yet  'tis  not  that  here 

There's  nothing  to  live  for,  and  nothing  to  love; 
The  cup  of  life's  blessings,  though  mingled  with  tears, 

Is  crowned  with  rich  tokens  of  good  from  above ; 
And  dark  though  the  storms  of  adversity  rise, 

Though  changes  dishearten,  and  dangers  appall, 
Each  hath  its  high  purpose,  both  gracious  and  wise, 

And  a  Father's  kind  providence  rules  over  all. 

"  I  would  not  live  alway!"  and  yet,  oh,  to  die, 

With  a  shuddering  thrill  how  it  pierces  the  heart ! 
We  may  love,  we  may  pant  for,  the  glory  on  high, 

Yet  tremble  and  grieve  from  earth's  kindred  to  part. 
There  are  ties  of  deep  tenderness  drawing  us  down, 

Which  warm  round  the  heart-strings  their  tendrils  will  weave, 
And  faith,  reaching  forth  for  her  heavenly  crown, 

Still  lingers  embracing  the  friends  she  must  leave. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"I  would  not  live  ahvay !"  because  I  am  sure 

There's  a  better,  a  holier  rest  in  the  sky; 
And  the  hope  that  looks  forth  to  that  heavenly  shore, 

Overcomes  timid  nature's  reluctance  to  die. 

0  visions  of  glory,  of  bliss,  and  of  love. 
Where  sin  cannot  enter,  nor  passion  enslave, 

Ye  have  power  o'er  the  heart,  to  subdue  or  remove 
The  sharpness  of  death,  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave! 

"  I  would  not  live  alway!"  yet  'tis  not  that  time, 

Its  loves,  hopes  and  friendships,  cares,  duties  and  joys, 
Yield  nothing  exalted,  nor  pure,  nor  sublime, 

The  heart  to  delight,  or  the  soul  to  employ; 
No!  an  angel  might  oftentimes  sinlessly  dwell 

'Mid  the  innocent  scenes  to  life's  pilgrimage  given; 
And  though  passion  and  folly  can  make  earth  a  hell, 

To  the  pure  'tis  the  emblem  and  gateway  of  heaven. 

*'  I  would  not  live  alway!"  and  yet  while  I  stay 
In  the  Eden  of  time,  'mid  these  gardens  of  earth, 

I'd  enjoy  the  sweet  flowers  and  fruits  as  I  may, 

And  gain  with  their  treasures  whate'er  they  are  worth. 

1  would  live  as  if  life  were  a  part  of  my  heaven, 
I  would  live  as  if  love  were  a  part  of  its  bliss, 

And  I'd  take  the  sweet  comforts,  so  lavishly  given, 
As  foretastes  of  that  world,  in  portions,  in  this. 

"I  would  not  live  alway!"  yet  willingly  wait, 

Be  it  longer  or  shorter,  life's  journey  to  roam, 
Ever  ready  and  girded,  with  spirits  elate, 

To  obey  the  first  call  that  shall  summon  me  home. 
Oh  yes !  it  is  better,  far  better,  to  go 

Where  pain,  sin  and  sorrow  can  never  intrude, 
And  yet  I  would  cheerfully  tarry  below, 

And,  expecting  the  better,  rejoice  in  the  good. 


This  highly  gifted  young  man,  an  associate  editor  with.  John  Neal,  in  the  publication  of 
The  Yankee,  and  for  a  while  a  resident  of  Portland ,  Avas  probably  a  native  of  Massachu 
setts,  born  in  1804.  He  died  from  the  effects  of  a  fall,  in  the  West  Indies,  Nov..  1829.  The 
following  poem  was  written  during  his  residence  in  Portland. 


VOICE  OF  AX   OLD  ELM. 

Stay,  weary  traveler,  thy  heavy  tread, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  my  welcome  is  to  all! 

To  all  her  children  is  Earth's  bosom  spread, 
On  all  the  winds  goes  forth  my  breezy  call. 


JAMES   WILLIAM  MILLED. 


An  exiled  wanderer  from  distant  lands, 

Com'st  thou*  to  share  the  blessings  of  the  free, 

Escaped  from  tyrant  thraldom's  iron  hands? 
Here,  in  God's  temple,  bow  the  grateful  knee. 

And  turn  thy  eye  along  the  reaching  vale, 
The  verdant  copse  and  winding  river  scan; 

Content's  mild  voice  is  011  the  freshening  gale, 
To  teach  thy  spirit,  here  is  peace  for  man. 

Or  com'st  thou,  journey er,  from  ways  of  toil, 

And  restless  roaming  over  earth  and  sea, 
Seeking  red  wealth,  amidst  the  stern  turmoil 

Of  life's  conflicting  passions'? — turn  to  me. 

Turn  to  me  hither;  I  will  teach  thy  heart 

How  very  vain  are  all  wealth's  glittering  toys; 

How  gold-bought  pleasures,  rainbow-like,  depart, 
And  show  thee  Man's  true  wants  and  real  joys. 

Then  o'er  thy  thought  my  whispering  boughs  shall  move, 
And  win  thy  vagrant  wishes  back,  to  roam 

Among  the  old  scenes  of  thy  childhood's  love, 
In  the  calm  sunshine  of  thine  early  home. 

Or,  wanderer,  are  thy  days  of  dreaming  flown, 
As  summer  clouds  and  youthful  sorrows  fly? 

Thy  hopes,  o'er  life's  dark  billows  strown, 
As  autumn  leaves  on  wint'ry  streams  pass  by? 

A  lonely  pilgrim,  down  the  vale  of  years, 

Through  storm  and  sunshine,  hast  thou  wandered  far? 
And  gleams  thy  aged  cheek  with  struggling  tears, 

As  thine  eye  rests  upon  the  evening  star? 

Art  thou  of  those,  who  wist  not  where  to  lay 
The  hoary  head  and  withered  form  to  rest? 

Whose  home,  and  all  who  cheered  it,  passed  away, 
As  the  fair  pines  that  watched  yon  hillock's  crest? 

Yet,  pilgrim,  turn,  and  as  thy  silver  hair 

Lifts  in  the  breeze,  thy  panting  toils  may  cease; 

And,  pouring  forth  thine  humbled  heart  in  prayer, 
God  give  thee  promise  of  a  home  of  peace. 

Stay,  weary  traveler,  thy  heavy  tread, 
Turn  thee  beneath  my  pleasant  shade  to  rest; 

And  while  above  my  sheltering  arms  are  spread, 
Sleep,  son  of  earth,  upon  thy  mother's  breast. 


70  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Sleep  thou  amidst  the  incense  of  her  flowers ; 

Such  perfume  breathes  not  o'er  the  monarches  crown! 
And,  straying  lightly  through  thy  fancy's  bowers, 

Forget  that  weariness  hath  borne  thee  down. 


<§. lijnh  garish 


The  eldest  son  of  the  late  Rev.  Daniel  Lovejoy,  of  Albion,  and  born  in  that  town  Nov. 
9, 1802.  His  father  was  a  man  of  great  piety,  and  an  arduous  worker  in  the  diffusion  of 
the  gospel  throughout  the  then  wilderness  part  of  Maine.  Elijah  at  a  very  early  age  dis 
played  a  determined  resoluteness  and  firmness,  spending  all  of  his  spare  moments  in 
study,  and  made  remarkable  progress.  He  graduated  from  Waterville  College  in  1826,  re 
ceiving  the  first  honors  of  his  class,  and  pronouncing  a  poem  before  it  entitled,  'Inspi 
ration  of  the  Muse."  In  1827,  Mr.  Lovejoy  removed  to  the  West,  and  was  engaged  in 
teaching  and  editing  for  several  years.  He  established  a  paper  in  St.  Louis  which  he  con 
ducted  for  nearly  two  years, when,  OAving  to  the  publication  of  a  severe  editorial  on  slavery, 
a  mob  was  created,  and  eventually  he  was  obliged  to  remove  from  the  city  to  escape  their 
vengeance.  In  June,  1836,  he  removed  his  press  to  Alton,  111.,  where  it  was  destroyed 
soon  after  being  landed.  He  procured  another  one,  and  continued  the  publication  of  the 
"Observer;"  but  had  been  established  here  only  a  short  time,  when  articles  similar  to 
those  published  in  St.  Louis  created  another  mob.  On  Mr.  Lovejoy's  expressing  his  de 
termination  to  continue  to  write  against  slavery,  the  office  of  the  Observer  was  destroy 
ed.  Still,  undaunted,  by  the  assistance  of  his  friends,  he  purchased  another  press,  which, 
like  the  first,  was  destroyed  by  a  mob,  before  it  was  put  up,  and,  while  defending  it,  Mr. 
Lovejoy  was  fired  at, and  exclaiming,  "Oh  God, I  am  shot, I  am  shot,"  expired  instantly. 
This  sad  event  occurred  during  the  night  of  the  seventh  of  November,  1837.  He  was 
buried  on  his  thirty-fifth  birthday,  and  left  a  wife  and  one  little  boy  to  mourn  his  tragic 


THE  LITTLE  STAR. 

I  would  I  were  on  yonder  little  star, 
That  looks  so  modest  in  the  silver  sky, 

Removed  in  boundless  space  so  very  far, 
That  scarce  its  rays  can  meet  the  gazer's  eye, 
Yet  there  it  hangs  all  lonely,  bright  and  high. 

O  could  I  mount  where  fancy  leads  the  way, 
How  soon  would  I  look  down  upon  the  sun, 

Rest  my  tired  wings  upon  his  upward  ray, 
And  go  where  never  yet  his  beams  have  shone, 
Light  on  that  little  star  and  make  it  all  my  own. 

Love  dwells  not  with  us,  in  some  happier  sphere 
It  makes  its  angel  heaven  to  innocence  so  dear: 

There  is,  beyond  this  sublunary  ball, 
A  land  of  souls,  a  heaven  of  peace  and  joy, 
Whose  skies  are  always  bright,  whose  pleasures  never  cloy. 

And  if  to  souls  released  from  earth  'tis  given 
To  choose  their  home  through  bright  infinity, 

Then  yonder  star  shall  be  my  happy  heaven, 
And  I  will  live  unknown,  for  I  would  be 
The  lonely  hermit  of  Eternity, 


EICHAED  HAMPTON  VO8E.  71 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

My  Mother !  I  am  far  away 

From  home,  and  love,  and  thee; 
And  stranger  hands  will  heap  the  clay 

That  soon  may  cover  me : 
Yet  we  shall  meet — perhaps  not  here, 
But  in  yon  shining,  azure  sphere : 
And  if  there's  aught  assures  me  more, 

Ere  yet  my  spirit  fly, 
That  heaven  has  mercy  still  in  store 

For  such  a  wretch  as  I, 
'Tis  that  a  heart  so  good  as  thine, 
Must  bleed — must  burst  along  with  mine. 

And  life  is  short  at  best,  and  Time 
Must  soon  prepare  the  tomb ; 

And  there  is  sure  a  happier  clime, 
Beyond  this  world  of  gloom — 

And  should  it  be  my  happy  lot- 
After  a  life  of  care  and  pain, 
In  sadness  spent,  or  spent  in  vain — 

To  go  where  sighs  and  sin  are  not — 
'Twill  make  the  half  my  heaven  to  be, 
My  Mother,  ever  more  with  thee ! 


Born  in  Northfield,  Mass.,  1803,  and  graduated  at  Bowdoiii  College,  spending  the  next 
year  after  graduation  in  teaching  at  Augusta,  in  this  State.  He  studied  law  in  the  office 
of  Governor  Lincoln,  and  afterward  formed  a  co-partnership  with  Pliny  (now  Judge) 
Merrick,  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts  After  two  years'  practice  in  Worces 
ter,  Mr.  Vose  returned  to  Augusta,  and  between  1834  and  1839,  he  -was  four  times  elected 
to  the  House  of  Kepresentatives  of  the  Maine  Legislature.  In  1840  and  1841  he  was  Sen 
ator  for  Kennehec,  and  president  of  the  Senate  in  the  year  last  named.  After  that  time, 
until  his  death,  which  occurred  in  18C4,  Mr.  Vose  adhered  to  his  profession.  His  eldest 
son,  George  L.,  formerly  professor  of  civil  engineering  at  Bowdoin  College,  is  the  au 
thor  of  a  "  Hand-Book  on  Engineering,"  which  is  highly  praised. 


MENTAL  BEAUTY. 

I  love  the  hour  when  day  is  spent, 
And  stars  are  in  the  firmament; 
Sweet  hour  of  night,  thy  shadows  roll 
A  heavenly  calmness  o'er  the  soul. 

I  love  to  gaze  upon  the  deep, 

When  furious  storms  are  lulled  to  rest; 
How  calmly  sweet  those  billows  sleep, 

And  mildly  smile  on  ocean's  breast. 


72  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Oh !  who  can  gaze  upon  the  ocean, 
And  see  the  moonbeams  sparkle  there, 

Nor  feel  the  flame  of  pure  devotion, 
Nor  offer  up  one  fervent  prayer. 

And  who  has  marked  the  rainbow's  smile, 
That  emblem  of  our  Maker's  love, 

And  did  not  burn  with  love  the  while, 
To  join  the  adoring  train  above? 

But  there's  a  beauty  far  more  bright, 
Than  Ocean's  gems  of  fairest  hue  — 

Than  starry  hosts  of  heavenly  light, 
When  beaming  from  that  sky  of  blue. 

The  glorious  sky  shall  pass  away, 
The  mighty  deep  must  cease  to  flow, 

Created  things  shall  all  decay — 
This  is  our  sentence,  this  our  woe. 

Yet  earth,  with  Heaven  can  boast  alone, 
A  brighter  beauty,  more  refined, 

Its  centre  is  the  Eternal's  throne — 
It  is  the  beauty  of  the  mind. 


wn  Wheeler. 


Rev.  Amos  Dean  Wheeler,  D.  D..  was  born  in  Woodstock,  Vt.,  Dec.  13, 1803.  His  father 
dying  when  he  was  three  years  old,  he  \vas  adopted  by  James  Udall,  Esq.,  of  Hartland, 
Vt.,  with  whom  he  lived  until  seventeen  years  of  age,  receiving  instruction  in  the  com 
mon  schools  and  at  Thetford  Academy.  In  1820  he  went  to  Leicester  Academy,  Mass.,  his 
relatives  residing  in  that  town,  and  subsequently  taught  school  until  he  entered  Wil 
liams  College,  from  which  he  graduated  in  1827.  He  then  taught  the  Academy  at  Marl 
boro  for  two  years,  and  was  soon  elected  principal  of  the  Latin  Grammar  School  in  Sa 
lem.  He  remained  in  that  position  for  three  years,  studying  theology,  meantime,  with 
the  Rev.  Chas.  Upham,  D.  D.,  who  was  then  pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Salem.  Short 
ly  after  he  spent  a  year  at  Harvard  Divinity  School,  from  which  he  graduated  in  1833. 
After  preaching  a  few  months  in  Pennsylvania— Meadville, — he  was  invited,  in  1834,  to 
settle  over  the  Unitarian  Society  in  Stan'dish,  Maine.  Here  he  continued  till  1839,  when 
he  received  a  call  to  settle  in  Topsham,  where  he  ever  after  lived.  For  fourteen  years 
he  preached  in  the  Unitarian  Church  in  Topsham.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  Unita 
rian  Society  of  Topsham  and  the  Universalist  Society  of  Brunswick  were  united  under 
the  name  of  "  The  Mason  Street  Religious  Society,"  of  Brunswick,  and  Mr.  Wheeler  was 
invited  to  become  pastor  of  the  new  organization.  He  preached  to  this  society  until 
1865,  when  he  resigned,  and  was  soon  after  appointed  missionary  for  the  American  Uni 
tarian  Association  to  the  State  of  Maine,  and  at  about  the  same  time  he  was  elected  sec 
retary  of  the  Maine  Conference  of  Unitarian  churches.  He  died  June  28,  1876. 

HYMN. 

i. 
God  of  the  firm  and  solid  land ! 

God  of  the  deep  and  restless  sea ! 
Here,  on  this  wild,  surf-beaten  strand, 

We  raise  our  willing  thoughts  to  Thee. 


AMOS  DEAN   WHEELER.  73 


n. 

Where  once  the  wily  red  man  stood, 
Where  once  he  dipped  the  plashing  oar; 

By  river's  brink,  and  briny  flood, 
We  bow  before  Thee,  and  adore. 

in. 
Where  men  of  wit,  and  men  of  toil, 

And  Christian  heroes,  brave  and  true, 
First  planted  on  New  England's  soil 

The  sturdy  stock  from  which  we  grew,— 

IV. 

Where  first  the  song  of  praise  was  heard, 
And  first  the  solemn  voice  of  prayer; 

And  first  the  reconciling  word 
Was  borne  upon  the  summer  air; 

v. 
And  where  the  first  low  grave  was  made 

Beneath  New  England's  wintry  snows: 
And  the  first  Christian  relics  laid, 

To  slumber  in  their  long  repose ; — 


We  meet  and  bend  the  knee  to-day; 

Those  early  times  bring  back  to  view: 
We  sing  again  the  sacred  lay, 

Again  those  ancient  rites  renew. 

VII. 

Lord!    Hear  us  in  this  solemn  hour; 

Accept  our  thanks  for  mercies  given; 
Dispel  the  storms  that  darkly  lower, 

And  be  our  Guide  to  peace  and  Heaven 


PASSING  AWAY. 

It  is  written  on  the  rose 

In  its  glory's  full  array,— 
Read  what  those  buds  disclose  : 

"Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  skies 

Of  the  soft  blue  summer's  day; — 
It  is  traced  in  sunset  dyes : 

"Passing  away." 


74  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

It  is  written  on  the  trees, 

As  their  young  leaves  glist'ning  play, 
And  on  fairer  things  than  these: 

"Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  brow 

Where  the  spirit's  ardent  ray, 
Lives,  burns,  and  triumphs  now : 

"Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  heart — 

Alas !  that  there  decay 
Should  claim  from  Love  a  part: 

"Passing  away." 


nnicq  jjzlq 


This  lady  was  born  in  Kennebunk,  Jan.  27, 1803.  She  was  married  in  Hallowell  to  Itev. 
Sylvanus  Cobb,  D.  D.,  Sept.  10, 1822,  and  was  a  devoted  and  efficient  help-mate  throughout 
his  long  and  laborious  life.  Her  eldest  son,  Sylvanus,  derived  much  of  his  noted  faculty  for 
story-telling  from  her  practice  of  'telling  him  stories— often  continued  from  evening  to 
evening  as  he  sat  at  her  feet  when  a  child.  She  wrote  hymns,  and  occasional  poems,  and 
obituary  lines,  which  comforted  many  sorrowing  hearts.  In  all  her  poetry  a  faith  in  God 
the  Universal  Father,  was  expressed.  Asa  public  speaker  she  was  very  persuasive  and 
convincing.  She  was  the  first  female  president  of  the  Ladies'  Physiological  Institute  of 
Boston,  and  served  it  in  that  capacity  for  some  fifteen  years.  She  had  always  desired  to  die 
in  the  old  rocking-chair  in  which  her  mother  and  grandmother  died,  while  the  Sabbath 
morning  bells  were  ringing.  Her  wish  was  gratified.  In  East  Boston,  at  the  residence 
of  her  son.  G-eo.  W.  Cobb.  on  Sabbath  morning,  May  2,  1880,  while  the  church  bells  were 
ringing,  and  sitting  in  the  old  chair  she  loved  so  much— while  holding  her  grandson  Al 
bert's  hand— she  passed  peacefully  away.  With  her  last  breath  she  exclaimed,  Oh, 
this  is  glorious!"  Death  opened  to  her  sight  the  realities  of  heaven,  which  had  been  the 
object  of  her  steadfast  faith  in  life. 

HYMN  FOR  BAPTISM. 

WAI/THAM,  OCT.  4,   1840. 

Supremely  blest  is  he  who  gives 

Himself,  his  life  to  God  in  youth ; 
Who  near  his  Heavenly  Father  lives, 

And  walks  obedient  to  His  truth. 


His  mind  is  staid  upon  the  Lord, 

His  paths  are  paved  with  heavenly  peace-. 

A  holy  joy  is  his  reward, 
And  with  his  days  his  joys  increase. 

Regard,  O  God,  these  youths  who  come 
To  be  baptized  in  Jesus'  name, 

To  follow  thy  "Beloved  Son," 
Who  did  Thy  boundless  love  proclaim. 


EUNICE  HALE  WAITE  COBB.  75 


O  may  Thy  spirit  here  descend, 

Like  Hermoii's  dew  from  heaven  above, 
And  Thy  sweet  presence  them  attend, 

To  fill  their  souls  with  heavenly  love. 

May  many  here,  whose  youthful  hearts 
Are  seeking  pleasures  which  decay, 

Seek  joys  which  Christian  truth  imparts, 
That  light  the  soul  to  endless  day. 


LINES. 

The  following  lines  closed  a  graphic  description  of  the  arrival  in  Boston  harbor  of  the 
British  steamer  America,  amid  the  thunder  of  artillery,  the  flight  of  rockets  and  the  voice 
of  song. 

O  pleasant  thought !  that  England  now  can  come 

And  be  a  part  of  this,  our  happy  home ; 

Our  Pennant  wear,  our  Stars  and  Stripes  display, 

And  join  with  us  to  celebrate  the  day 

Which  gave  to  us  triumphant  Freedom's  birth, 

That  we  might  stand  among  the  great  of  earth. 

And  may  that  ship  which  bears  our  country's  name, 

In  commerce  stand  unrivalled  for  her  fame, 

And  be  protected  by  that  unseen  Hand, 

Whose  mighty  power  is  felt  o'er  sea  and  land. 


The  following  poern  was  written  during  her  last  sickness,  and  sent  to  her  son,  Sylvan  us 
Cobb,  Jr. 

THOUGHTS  ON   CREATION. 

When  the  Creator  spake,  and  light  appeared, 
His  great  command  chaotic  darkness  cleared. 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars  to  being  came, 
Bathed  in  the  glory  of  celestial  name ! 
And  then,  in  furth'rance  of  His  wondrous  plan, 
In  his  own  image  He  created  man. 

Above  all  other  things  of  living  kind, 

To  man  was  given  a  progressive  mind, — 

A  mind  sufficient  for  the  life  of  earth. 

Progressing  still  beyond  a  heavenly  birth. 

And,  as  creation  now  before  him  stood. 

He  looked  on  all  He  'd  made,  and  called  it  good ! 


76  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Ages  have  rolled  on  ages  since  that  hour, 

When  once  again  appears  the  Almighty  power — 

Again.that  great  command:  "Let  there  be  light!" 

And  Bethlehem's  star  breaks  through  the  gloom  of  night. 

Man  shall  not  die !    The  sleep  which  we  call  death 

Shall  find  a  waking  with  angelic  breath. 

A  solemn  joy  my  yearning  soul  enthrills; 

My  waning  life  has  triumphed  o'er  its  ills. 


ittmm 


Born  in  Belfast  in  1805,  and  died  there  March  21,  1881.  Governor  of  Maine  in  1853  and 
1854,  by  election  of  the  Legislature.  Gov.  Crosby  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Boston, 
and  practiced  there  from  1826  to  1828,  when  he  returned  to  Belfast.  In  1846  Mr.  Cros 
by  was  elected  Secretary  of  the  Maine  Board  of  Education,  and  held  this  important 
and  honorable  office  three  years.  Subsequently,  on  retiring  from  the  office  of  chief 
magistrate,  he  resided  for  a  while  in  Boston,  editorially  connected  with  Mr.  Littell  in 
some  of  his  publications.  On  returning  to  Belfast,  he  resumed  his  profession,  and 
held  high  rank  at  the  bar.  In  1866  he  received  the  appointment  of  collector  for  the  dis 
trict,  his  last  piiblic  position.  He  wras  a  man  of  cultivated  literary  tastes,  and  his  Com 
mencement  part  at  Bowdoiri  College  Avas  a  poem.  He  published  a  series  of  fifty-two 
papers,  entitled,  "  Annals  of  Belfast  for  Half  a  Century,  by  an  Old  Settler,"  and  deliv 
ered  one  of  a  popular  course  of  lectures.  In  1870  he  received  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  from 
the  college,  and  was  for  a  time  on  its  Board  of  Overseers. 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

Lone,  trembling  one! 

Last  of  a  summer  race,  withered  and  sear 
And  shivering — wherefore  art  thou  lingering  here? 

Thy  work  is  done. 

Thou  hast  seen  all 

The  summer  flowers  reposing  in  their  tomb, 
And  the  green  leaves,  that  knew  thee  in  their  bloom, 

Wither  and  fall! 

The  voice  of  spring, 

Which  called  thee  into  being,  ne'er  again 
Will  greet  thee — nor  the  gentle  summer  rain 

New  verdure  bring. 

The  Zephyr's  breath 

No  more  will  make  for  thee  its  melody — 
But  the  lone  sighing  of  the  blast  shall  be 

Thy  hymn  of  death. 


WILLIAM  GEORGE  CROSBY.  11 


Yet  a  few  days, 

A  few  faint  struggles  with  the  autumn  storm, 
And  the  strained  eye,  to  catch  thy  quivering  form, 

In  vain  may  gaze. 

Pale  autumn  leaf ! 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  mortality. 
The  broken  heart,  once  young  and  fresh  like  thee, 

Withered  by  grief, — 

Whose  leaves  are  fled, 

Whose  loved  ones  all  have  drooped  and  died  away, 
Still  clings  to  life — and,  lingering,  loves  to  stay 

Above  the  dead ! 

But  list — even  now 

I  hear  the  gathering  of  the  wint'ry  blast. 
It  comes — thy  frail  form  trembles — it  is  past ! 

And  so  art  thou. 


TRUE  FAME. 

Who  hath  not  hoped  for  immortality? 
And  what  is  immortality? — to  be 
A  while  remembered,  when  the  heart  is  cold, 
And  o'er  the  nerveless  hand  hath  crept  the  mould 
Of  the  damp  sepulchre?  to  be  heralded 
By  the  loud  trump  of  Fame,  when  life  hath  fled, 
Until  even  its  echo  hath  gone  past 
And  perished  in  the  abyss  of  ages?  No! 
It  is  to  live  while  memory  shall  last, 
Shrined  deep  within  the  heart— the  ceaseless  flow 
Of  centuries  only  adding  to  the  sum 
Of  the  world's  gratitude!  'tis  to  become 
The  embodied  soul  of  genius ! — such  a  one, 
As  the  eye  gazeth  on — even  Washington. 


TO  A  LADY. 

WITH    A   WITHERED    LEAF. 

What  offering  can  the  minstrel  bring 
To  cast  upon  affection's  shrine? 

'Twas  hard  thy  magic  spells  to  fling 
O'er  the  fond  heart  already  thine! 

Thou  would' st  not  prize  the  glittering  gem, 
Thou  would' st  but  cast  the  pearl  away; 

For  thine  is  now  a  diadem 
Of  lustre  brighter  far  than  they. 


78  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


I  will  not  bring  the  spring-tide  flower, 

Reposing  011  its  gentle  leaf; 
Its  memory  lives  but  for  an  hour — 

1  would  not  thine  should  be  as  brief. 

My  heart  /—but  that  has  long  been  thine — 

'Twere  but  a  worthless  offering; 
The  ruin  of  a  rifled  shrine, 

A  flower  that  fast  is  withering. 

My  sony ! — 'tis  but  a  mournful  strain, 

So  deep  in  sorrow's  mantle  clad, 
E'en  echo  will  not  wake  again 

The  music  of  a  strain  so  sad. 

A  withered  leaf!  nay,  scorn  it  not, 

Nor  deem  it  all  unworthy  thee; 
It  grew  upon  a  hallowed  spot, 

And  sacred  is  its  memory. 

I  plucked  it  from  a  lonely  bough, 
That  hung  above  my  mother's  grave, 

And  felt  e'en  then,  that  none  but  thou 
Could'st  prize  the  gift  affection  gave. 

She  faded  with  the  flowers  of  spring, 
That  o'er  her  lifeless  form  were  cast — 

And  when  I  plucked  this  faded  thing, 
'Twas  shivering  in  the  autumn  blast. 

'T  was  the  last  one ! — all — all  were  gone, 
They  bloomed  not  where  the  yew-trees  wave; 

This  leaf  and  I  were  left  alone, 
Pale  watchers  o'er  my  mother's  grave. 

I  marked  it,  when  full  oft  I  sought 

That  spot  so  dear  to  memory; 
[  loved  it — for  I  fondly  thought, 

It  lingered  there  to  mourn  wTith  me ! 

I've  moistened  it  with  many  a  tear, 
I've  hallowed  it  with  many  a  prayer; 

And  while  this  bursting  heart  was  clear 
From  guilt's  dark  stain,  I  shrined  it  there. 

Xow,  lady,  now  the  gift  is  thine! 

Oh,  guard  it  with  a  vestal's  care: 
Make  but  thine  angel  heart  its  shrine, 

And  I  will  kneel  and  worship  there! 


JONAS   WELCH  HOLM  AN.  70 


altmn. 

Rev.  J.  \V.  Hobnail,  M.  D.,  was  born  in  Canaan,  Me.,  April  28,  1805.  His  parents  were 
worthy  people  who,  by  dint  of  great  economy  and  unflinching  self-sacrifice  brought  up 
a  large  family  of  children,  all  of  whom,  despite  the  disadvantages  by  which  they  were 


family  of  children,  all  of  whom,  despite  the  dis 
ded,  acquired  an  education,  and  filled  important 


surrounded  acquired  an  education,  and  filled  important  positions  in  after  life  as  clergy 
men  physicians  and  teachers.  He  was  early  taught  the  importance  of  religion.  Con 
verted  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  at  eighteen  he  felt  impressed  to  study  for  the  ministry,  and 
entered  upon  a  preparatory  course  at  Waterville.  He  began  his  life-work  as  an  Evange 
list  traveling  over  a  large 'portion  of  Maine,  preaching  wherever  opportunity  presented 
itself  and  meeting  with  great  success  in  his  labors.  His  first  settlement  was  in  Phila 
delphia  where  he  remained  eight  years.  In  1831  he  removed  to  Boston,  organized  the 
First  Free-will  Baptist  Church  in  that  city,  and  continued  its  pastor  about  fifteen  years. 
During  this  period  he  studied  medicine  at  Harvard,  and  ever  afterward  made  good  use  of 
his  medical  knowledge  in  connection  with  his  ministry.  In  1853  he  united  with  the  Bap 
tists  and  became  pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Norwich,  Conn.  From  Norwich  he  was 
called  to  the  Bloomingdale  (now  the  Central)  Baptist  Church  of  New  York  City.  After 
several  years  of  service  he  resigned  his  charge  of  that  church  and  organized  the  Mt.  Oli 
vet  Church  in  the  same  city.  He  was  subsequently  pastor  of  Baptist  churches  in  Stan- 
fordville,  N.  Y.,  Rockport  and  North  Haven,  Me., Franklin,  Mass.,  and  North  Stonington, 
Conn.  His  relations  with  the  last-named  church  continued  until  his  death,  which  occur 
red  in  1873.  His  whole  ministry  covered  half  a  century,  during  which  period  he  preached 
over  5,000  sermons,  and  abounded  in  all  other  Christian  and  philanthropic  labors.  He  at 
one  time  published  a  religious  journal  called  "The  Revivalist,"  contributed  frequently 
to  the  press;  was  the  author  of  some  valuable  notes  on  the  *'  Book  of  Revelation,"  and 
wrote  a  great  many  hymns  and  poems,  some  of  which  are  widely  known  and  highly  es 
teemed.  His  life  was  long  and  useful,  his  character  unspotted,  and  his  end  triumphant. 


THE  PIOME  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

I  stood  on  the  hill  by  the  green  hemlock  wood, 
On  the  very  same  spot  where  the  log-cabin  stood, 
In  which  I  was  cradled  and  where  I  had  passed 
The  days  of  my  childhood,  too  precious  to  last. 
It  seemed  like  a  dream,  as  I  gazed  all  around ; 
Not  a  trace  of  the  cabin  was  there  to  be  found; 
The  plough  had  gone  over  the  place  where  it  stood, 
And  there  were  the  flocks,  gently  cropping  their  food. 

I  went  by  the. grove  where  in  youth  I  had  strayed, 

While  I  wept  for  the  changes  that  time  since  had  made, 

The  old  leaning  hemlock  indeed  was  still  there, 

But  its  glory  was  gone,  for  its  branches  were  bare. 

I  sought  for  the  well  where  I  often  had  been, 

But  the  curb  was  removed,  and  the  earth  had  caved  in; 

The  axe  and  the  fire  had  assailed  the  green  wood, 

And  the  rich  barley  waved  where  the  tall  cypress  stood. 

The  bramble  and  hedge,  where  the  birds  built  their  nests, 

Though  dear  to  my  childhood,  had  gone  like  the  rest, — 

Indeed  if  the  gods  had  been  reveling  there, 

They  could  not  have  left  the  old  homestead  so  bare. 

I  asked  for  my  mother,  as  though  but  a  week 

Had  passed  since  she  pressed  the  last  kiss  on  my  cheek. 

"  Your  mother,"  said  one,  "  O!  'tis  long  since  she  died ! 

And  your  father,  too,  lies  in  the  grave  by  her  side!" 


SO  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"And  where  are  my  brothers  that  loved  me  so  well? 

And  my  little  sister?    Why  do  you  not  tell?" 

"Go  down  to  their  grave,"  said  a  sage  standing  l>y, 

"And  look  on  the  spot  where  together  they  lie." 

Thus  passes  the  world !  and  ah !  soon  it  will  be, 

What  is  now  said  of  them,  will  be  spoken  of  me. 

Then  give  me  a  dwelling,  a  mansion  on  high, 

Where  my  joys  shall  not  fade,  where  my  friends  shall  not  die. 


THE  ORPHAN'S  LAMENT. 

Oh  where  is  my  mother,  my  own  dearest  mother, 
Whose  bosom  so  often  hath  pillowed  my  head? 

For  since  she  has  left  me,  earth  hath  not  another 
To  mingle  her  sighs  with  the  tears  that  I  shed. 

She  has  gone !  but  her  image,  as  lovely  as  ever, 
Seems  living  before  me  where'er  I  remain. 

But  silent  as  shadow ;  oh !  say,  am  I  never 
To  hear  the  sweet  voice  of  my  mother  again? 

When  weary  and  cheerless  I  go  to  my  pillow, 

And  hushed  is  the  world  in  the  stillness  of  sleep, 

I  dream  that  I  see  her,  like  Christ  on  the  billow, 
Approaching  with  smiles  that  forbid  me  to  weep. 

I  start  to  embrace  her,  but  wake  from  the  vision, 
And  weep  that  the  blessed  illusion  is  o'er; 

Oh  death-stricken  world,  once  thy  fields  were  elysian; 
But  shrouded  in  gloom,  thou  art  lovely  110  more. 

Though  everything  round  me  may  fade  like  a  blossom, 
And  Nature  in  sackcloth  be  mournfully  dressed, 

Yet,  mother,  thy  memory  shall  live  in  my  bosom, 
Till,  dying,  we  meet  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 


STANZAS. 

Go,  make  me  a  grave  by  the  green  maple  wood, 
And  lay  me  to  rest  with  the  pure  and  the  good, 
Where  the  violet  blooms  with  the  sweet  scented  rose, 
By  the  side  of  my  loved  ones,  there  let  me  repose. 

I  once  was  a  child,  without  sorrow  or  care, 
With  the  wide  world  around  me  all  blooming  and  fair ; 
Not  a  thorn  in  my  path,  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky, 
Not  a  thought  in  my  heart  of  a  sad  by-and-by. 


NATHANIEL  PARKER   WILLIS.  81 


Through  the  whole  merry  year  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
I  awoke  with  the  same  childish  relish  for  play ; 
Not  a  change  in  the  seasons,  nor  sunshine,  nor  rain, 
Could  a  moment  my  passion  for  pleasure  restrain. 

With  my  cap  in  my  hand,  and  a  smile  on  my  face, 
Whole  days  have  I  spent  in  the  butterfly  chase ; 
Never  dreaming  for  once,  while  engaged  in  the  strife, 
That  my  butterfly  chase  was  the  symbol  of  life. 

Bright  hope  o'er  my  path  threw  a  radiant  light, 
While  fancy  was  painting  a  future  all  bright ; 
The  "good  time"  was  coming,  but  long  ere  its  dawn, 
My  visions  had  vanished  and  childhood  wTas  gone. 

Years  fled,  as  the  dew  from  the  grass  in  the  morn, 
Or  as  leaves  on  the  swift  winds  of  autumn  are  borne ; 
Youth,  manhood,  and  age  like  the  seasons  went  by, 
Till  the  hour  is  at  hand  when  the  pilgrim  must  die. 

And  now,  while  I  wait  on  the  verge  of  the  tomb, 

I  look  on  the  past,  all  enshrouded  in  gloom; 

But  the  future  is  bright  as  the  unclouded  sun, 

And  my  home  all  prepared  when  my  work  here  is  done. 

Then  make  me  a  grave  where  my  ashes  may  rest 
With  the  ones  I  have  loved,  that  are  now  with  the  blest; 
And  when  we  awake,  in  the  great  rising  day, 
May  we  all  meet  with  joy  in  our  home  far  away. 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  Avas  born  in  Portland,  January  20, 1806,  arid  died  at  Idlewild, 
near  Newburgh,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  21, 18G7.  His  grandfather  and  his  father,  both  of  whom  were 
named  Nathaniel  Willis,  were  well-known  publishers,  the  former  having  been  an  appren 
tice  in  the  same  office  with  Benjamin  Franklin,  and  the  latter  was  the  founder  of  the 
Boston  Recorder — the  first  religious  newspaper  ever  published — and  also  the  founder  of 
the  Youth's  ( 'ompanion,  the  most  successful  juvenile  publication  in  this,  or  any  other 
country.  The  subject  of  our  sketch  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1827.  Prior  to 
this  he  Avon  a  prize  of  fifty  dollars  for  the  best  poem,  offered  by  the  publishers  of  one- of 
the  annuals.  While  a  college  student  he  published  a  series  of  "  Scriptural  Sketches"  in 
verse.  His  whole  life  was  spent  in  literature — editing  and  publishing  magazines,  and 
writing  volumes  of  prose  and  verse.  Mr.  Willis  was  twice  married;  first  in  England,  in 
1835,  to  Mary  Leighton  Stace,  a  daughter  of  Commissary-General  William  Stace,  an  offi 
cer  who  had  greatly  distinguished  himself  at  Waterloo,  and  after  her  death,  in  1846,  Mr. 
Willis  married  Cornelia,  only  daughter  of  Hon.  Joseph  Grinnell,of  New  Bedford,  Mass. 
The  same  year  he  and  Geo.  P.  Morris  established  the  "  Home  Journal,"  to  which  Willis 
contributed  till  his  death.  He  was  the  author  of  twenty-seven  volumes  of  poetry  and 
prose.  I  n  the  latter  field  he  was  also  very  successful,  his  "  Letters  from  Under  a  Bridge" 
containing  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  truthful  pictures  of  country  life  ever  written. 
Sarah  Payson  Willis,  wife  of  James  Parton,  the  historian,  and  familiarly  known  as  a 
sparkling  writer,  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Fanny  Fern,"  was  his  sister.  In  this 


82  THE  POETK  OF  MAI XV. 


connection,  the  interesting  fact  may  be  mentioned  that  his  father  was  the  first  editor  who 
was  ever  imprisoned  in  Maine  because  of  the  freedom  with  which  lie  uttered  his  senti 
ments  through  the  press.  It  was  while  conducting  the  "  Eastern  Argus,"  and  the  fact  is 
mentioned  in  Mr.  Elwell's  interesting  work  on  "  Portland  and  Vicinity."  Richard  Storrs 
Willis,  younger  brother  of  Nathaniel,  a  resident  of  Detroit,  Mich.,  devotes  his  time  to 
literary  pursuits,  and  has  published,  among  other  works,  a  volume  of  Ivrics  entitled  "Pen 
and  Lute."  Among  instrumental  pieces  he  wrote  the  "  Glen  Mary  Waltzes,"  which  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century  were  published  by  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.  During  the  war  he  com 
peted  for  a  prize  offered  for  the  best  national  song,  and  his  "Anthem  of  Liberty,"  to 
which  he  also  composed  the  music,  was  pronounced  best  by  the  committee. 


REVERIES. 

AN    EARLY    POKM. 

L  am  an  eldest  son.     My  years 

Have  been  like  golden  moments  nursed: 
And  if  I  ever  wept,  my  tears 

From  gentle  fountains,  gently  burst. 
My  mothers  kiss  came  with  my  prayer; 

My  father's  blessing  with  my  sleep; 
My  sister's  words  like  music  were, 

And  how  could  I  have  learned  to  weep? 
I  did  not — and  have  worn  a  brow 
Of  sunshine,  even  until  now. 

Love  comes  to  such  like  nature's  law, 

As  waters  swelling  to  a  gush ; 
And  thus,  if  light  or  life  I  saw, 

My  feelings  to  their  source  would  rush. 
A  sunny  leaf,  a  flitting  shade, 

A  tint  of  autumn,  moonlight,  aught 
By  which  this  glorious  world  is  made 

So  beautiful,  my  spirit  caught — 
And  thrilling  pleasure,  and  strange  power 

To  love  and  to  be  blest  rushed  by. 
And  I  have  lived  an  angel's  hour, 

While  sadder  spirits  longed  to  die. 

You  well  might  deem  that  I  should  look 

On  coming  days,  as  looks  the  sun 
On  leaf  and  tree,  and  find  the  book 

Of  nature  seem  a  brilliant  one. 
Like  him  I  looked  upon  the  side 

The  light  in  my  own  eye  made  bright; 
And  ever  found  the  shadows  glide 

Like  guilty  spirits  from  my  sight. 
What  marvel  then  that  I  should  build 

The  dreams  this  loitering  tale  would  tell 
Of  light,  and  that  my  thought  should  gild 

The  airy  elements  too  well? 


NATHANIEL  PARKER   WILLIS.  83 

But  it  is  so — and  I  will  leave 

The  moral  to  the  sad  and  dull, 
For  I  can  never  stop  to  grieve 

While  I  can  find  the  beautiful. 
E  have  lived  twenty  years,  and  feel 

The  longings  which  come  ever  then, 
To  try,  with  mind,  or  heart,  or  steel. 

Collision  with  my  fellow-men ; 
I  burn  to  bound  from  beauty's  thrall, 

Where  others  deem  me  idly  chained, 
And  strike  my  blow  for  aught,  or  all 

That  o'er  the  universe  hath  reigned. 
They  call  me  boy — I  feel  the  man — 

And  yet  will  prove  how  deeply  set 
Is  that  one  element,  "1  can," 

Among  the  things  we  ne'er  forget. 
'Tis  time,  f  know,  that  I  was  flinging 

My  rosy  fetters  to  the  wind, 
And,  like  the  desert  courser,  springing 

Upon  the  proud  career  of  mind. 
But  it  is  near — and  with  that  hour 

I  looked  to  see  my  follies  flee; 
And  sterner  thoughts  come  on,  with  power 

To  nerve  my  wakening  energy. 
'Tis  no  fair  dream — I  look  for  trial, 

Which  every  quivering  sinew  wrings ; 
For  pourings  from  that  bitter  vial 

Which  drinks  to  death  life's  swelling  springs. 
But  far  beyond  my  fancy  resteth 

On  deep,  sublimed,  and  glorious  worth; 
On  strength,  which,  like  the  eagle's,  breasteth 

The  highest  atmosphere  of  earth. 
I  look  to  rest — when  fire  hath  tried, 

And  much  affliction  purified. 

My  coloring  is  not  aye  so  deep — 

Anticipations  sometimes  come 
Like  fancies  in  a  gentle  sleep, 

And  pencil  sketches  of  a  home ; 
And  in  its  delicate  lines  I  trace 

The  tenderness  of  gentle  eyes, 
Whose  molten  light  might  be  the  place 

For  thought's  unsullied  paradise. 
I  feel  the  touch  of  ivory  fingers 

Upon  my  forehead's  swollen  vein. 


84  THE  rOETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  meet  a  look,  whose  softness  lingers 

As  if  it  would  drink  up  my  pain. 
I  hear  a  tone,  whose  silvery  gush 

Thrills  every  fibre,  sweetly  spoken, 
And  feel  the  rich  tumultuous  gush 

Of  fountains  which  had  else  been  broken. 
Beside  a  low  bent  head  I  kneel, 

Whose  raven  tresses  stir  with  prayer, 
And  hear  my  name,  and  deeply  feel 

How  holy  is  the  altar  there. 
And  then  I  gaze  on  dewy  lashes, 

And  part  the  hair  on  a  sweet  brow, 
And  watch  for  love's  impassioned  flashes 

In  eyes  too  serious  till  now. 
I  lay  upon  the  wasting  bed 

Of  sickness,  and  I  watch  a  cheek 
Whose  color  at  my  plaint  has  fled, 

And  count  the  deep  blue  veins  that  streak 
Its  lily  whiteness ;  and  I  listen 

To  tones  that  speak  inquiringly, 
And  feel,  that  as  the  tear-drops  glisten, 

And  fall  upon  me,  I  could  die ; 
For  I  should  sink  into  my  rest, 

So  utterly,  supremely  blest. 


THE  HEALING  OF  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS. 

Freshly  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.     She  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance — 
Her  thin,  pale  fingers  clasped  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 
The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 
And,  as  it  stirred  with  the  awakening  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 
And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 
She  turned  upon  her  pillow.     He  was  there — 
The  same  loved,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  looked 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 
With  the  fast-falling  tears ;  and,  with  a  sigh 
Of  tremulous  weakness  murmuring  his  name, 
She  gently  drew  his  hand  upon  her  lips, 
And  kissed  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 
Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS.  85 


Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face ; 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirred  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 

Had  ceased  its  pressure — and  he  could  not  hear, 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 

Came  through  her  nostrils — and  her  temples  gave 

To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse — and,  at  her  mouth, 

He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  011  her  neck 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 

Ached  with  its  deathly  stillness. 

It  was  night — 

And,  softly,  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipped  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  played  low  upon  the  beach 
Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 
Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 
In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 
Seemed  like  some  just-born  harmony  in  the  air, 
Waked  by  the  power  of  wisdom.     On  a  rock, 
With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 
He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 
Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 
And  staff — for  they  had  waited  by  the  sea 
Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  prayed 
For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 
His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 
And  the  long  curls  from  off  his  shoulders  fell, 
As  he  leaned  forward  earnestly,  and  still 
The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep— 
And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty — 
And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mixed  with  power — 
Filled  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 
As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 
The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 
JAIEUS  THE  RULER.    With  his  flowing  robe 
Gathered  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came, 
And  fixed  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 
The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side; 
And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away, 
And  left  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 
Alone.     A  moment  longer  on  the  face 
Of  the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze, 
And,  as  the  twelve  looked  on  him,  by  the  light 
Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 


86  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Steal  to  his  silver  beard;  and,  drawing  nigh 
Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 
Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 
Pressed  it  upon  his  lids,  and  murmured  low, 
"Master!  my  daughter /" 

The  same  silvery  light, 
That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals, 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcomed  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor, 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms, 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair;  but  ere  he  touched 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead!" 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  faltered,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance ; — but  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
*'  She  is  not  dead — but  sleepeth." 

They  passed  in. 

The  spice  lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burned  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curled  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumbered  in  their  folds — 
Xot  even  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed, 
And  prayed  maudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm,  sad  face,. 
And,  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart, 
And  looked  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay— 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white,  transparent  hands. 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 


NATHANIEL  PARKKR  WILLIS.  87 

The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life ; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Kan  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins ; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet-lash  overlay, 
Matching  the  arches  pencilled  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  he'r  small,  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'T  was  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"  Maiden,  arise!"  and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirred  in  the  linen  vesture,  and  she  clasped 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — AROSE  ! 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD  PAYSON,  D.  D. 

A  servant  of  the  living  God  is  dead! 

His  errand  hath  been  well  and  early  done, 

And  early  hath  he  gone  to  his  reward. 

He  shall  come  110  more  forth,  but  to  his  sleep 

Hath  silently  lain  down,  and  so  shall  rest. 

Would  ye  bewail  our  brother?    He  hath  gone 

To  Abraham's  bosom.     He  shall  no  more  thirst, 

Nor  hunger,  but  forever  in  the  eye, 

Holy  and  meek,  of  Jesus,  he  may  look, 

Unchided,  and  untempted,  and  unstained. 

Would  ye  bewail  our  brother?    He  hath  gone 

To  sit  down  with  the  prophets  by  the  clear 

And  crystal  waters;  he  hath  gone  to  list 

Isaiah's  harp  and  David's,  and  to  walk 

With  Enoch,  and  Elijah,  and  the  host 

Of  the  just  men  made  perfect.     He  shall  bow 

At  Gabriel's  hallelujah,  and  unfold 

The  scroll  of  the  Apocalypse  with  John, 

And  talk  of  Christ  with  Mary,  and  go  back 

To  the  last  supper,  and  the  garden  prayer 

With  the  beloved  disciple.     He  shall  hear 

The  story  of  the  Incarnation  told 


88  THE  I'OETti  OF  MAINE. 


By  Simeon,  and  the  Triune  mystery 

Burning  upon  the  fervent  lips  of  Paul. 

He  shall  have  wings  of  glory,  and  shall  soar 

To  the  remoter  firmaments,  and  read 

The  order  and  the  harmony  of  stars; 

And,  in  the  might  of  knowledge,  he  shall  bow, 

In  the  deep  pauses  of  archangel  harps, 

And,  humhle  as  the  seraphim,  shall  cry — 

"  Who,  by  his  searching,  finds  thee  out,  O  God!" 

There  shall  he  meet  his  children  who  have  gone 

Before  him,  and  as  other  years  roll  on, 

And  his  loved  flock  go  up  to  him,  his  hand 

Again  shall  lead  them  gently  to  the  Lamb, 

And  bring  them  to  the  living  waters  there. 

Is  it  so  good  to  die !  and  shall  we  mourn 

That  he  is  taken  early  to  his  rest? 

Tell  me !  oh  mourner  for  the  man  of  God ! 

Shall  we  bewail  our  brother — that  he  died  ? 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air: 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 
Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
AVhen  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon- 
When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for  noon — 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light — 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "nine  at  night" — 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 


NATHANIEL  PARKER   WILLIS.  89 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer — 

Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  Bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 

A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street; 

But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years ; 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true;  it  is  very  true; 

I'm  old,  and  "I  bide  my  time;" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on;  I  am  with  you  there, 
In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring; 

I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing; 


90  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor. 
And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

T  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go ; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


Born  in  Portland,  April  2, 180C>;  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  1826,  having  previous 
ly  attended  Phillips  Academy,  at  Andover,  Mass.  He  practiced  law  in  Boston  for  a  few 
years,  and  subsequently  withdrew  to  the  country,  and  engaged  in  agricultural  pursuits 
and  field  sports.  He  now  resides  at  Greenport,  L.  I.,  and  his  poems  suggested  by  his  fav 
orite  amusement  alone  would  make  a  volume.  While  a  student  he  was  a  regular  contribu 
tor  to  "  Knapp's  Boston  Magazine,"  and  to  the  "  New  York  Literary  Gazette,"  a  popu 
lar  journal,  then  edited  by  William  Cullen  Bryant,  the  poet.  Later  he  was  associated 
with  the  "  Boston  Daily  Patriot,"  which  lie  conducted  with  great  ability.  He  was  also, 
at  different  periods,  connected  with  other  Boston  journals  and  magazines.  His  first  vol 
ume  of  poems  appeared  in  1836.  He  has  made  a  two  years'  tour  in  Europe. 


MAINE. 

Far  in  the  sunset's  mellow  glory, 

Far  in  the  day-break's  pearly  bloom, 
Fringed  by  ocean's  foamy  surges, 

Belted  in  by  woods  of  gloom, 
Stretch  thy  soft,  luxuriant  borders, 

Smile  thy  shores,  in  hill  and  plain, 
Flower-enamelled,  ocean-girdled , 

Green  bright  shores  of  Maine. 

Rivers  of  surpassing  beauty 

From  thy  hemlock  woodlands  How, — 
Androscoggin  and  Penobscot, 

Saco,  chilled  by  northern  snow ; 
These  from  many  a  lowly  valley 

Thick  by  pine-trees  shadowed  o'er, 
Sparkling  from  their  ice-cold  tributes 

To  the  surges  of  thy  shore. 


IS  A  A  C  McLELLAN.  91 


Bays  resplendent  as  the  heaven, 

Starred  and  gemmed  by  thousand  isles, 
Gird  thee, — Casco  with  its  islets, 

Quoddy  with  its  dimpled  smiles ; 
O'er  them  swift  the  fisher's  shallop 

And  tall  ships  their  wings  expand, 
While  the  smoke-flag  of  the  steamer 
Flaunteth  out  its  cloudy  streamer, 

Bound  unto  a  foreign  strand. 

Bright  from  many  a  rocky  headland, 

Fringed  by  sands  that  shine  like  gold, 
Gleams  the  light-house,  white  and  lonely, 

Grim  as  some  baronial  hold. 
Bright  by  many  an  ocean  valley 

Shaded  hut  and  village  shine; 
Roof  and  steeple,  weather-beaten, 

Stained  by  ocean's  breath  of  brine. 


DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Wild  was  the  night;  yet  a  wilder  night 

Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 

Than  the  fight  of  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  by, 
The  few  that  his  stern  heart  cherished ; 

They  knew  by  his -glazed  and  unearthly  eye, 
That  life  had  nearly  perished. 

They  knew,  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look, 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dreamed  of  days  when  the  nations  shook, 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken. 

He  dreamed  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew, 
And  triumphed  the  Frenchman's  eagle; 

And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew, 
Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again. 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed, 
And  again,  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain, 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows, 
At  the  pyramids,  at  the  mountain, 

Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  flows, 
And  by  the  Italian  fountain. 

In  the  snowy  cliffs,  where  mountain  streams 
Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 

He  led  them  again  in  his  dying  dreams, 
His  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 

Again  Marengo's  iield  was  won, 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun, 

Made  pale  at  his  cannons'  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day. 

A  day  that  shall  live  in  story; 
En  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 

"And  left  him  alone  in  his  glory." 


jialitrt  jjaodw 

*^3**  NS»^  S^ 

This  poet,  who  began  his  law  practice  in  Limerick,  Me.,  Avhere  he  resided  six  years  was 
born  in  Barringtoii,  now  Stratford,  N.  H.,  July  19,  1806.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  Law 
School,  and  after  leaving  the  Pine  Tree  State;  settled  as  an  attorney  in  Lowell,  Mass, 
where  he  now  remains.  His  poetry  or  authorship,  may  be  found  in  his  volumes  of  "  Epics' 
Lyrics,  and  Ballads;"  in  his  several  orations;  in  his  "  History  of  the  Indian  Wars  of  New 
England;"  in  his  legends  and  dramas,  entitled,  "Battles  of  the  Bush,"  and  in  other  works. 
Mr.  Caverly  was  greatly  interested  in  the  erection  of  the  Hannah  Dustin  monument 
placed  on  the  island  in  Penacook,N.  H.,  where  Mrs.  Dustin  and  her  companions  perform 
ed  that  remarkable  deed  of  daring  at  the  midnight  hour. 

CLARA. 
Here  on  this  hill  she  wandered  in  her  childhood, 

Briefly  to  dance  sweet  summer  days  along; 
While  oft,  in  flowery  vale  or  waving  wildwood, 

She  blest  the  bluebird  with  her  little  song. 
Now  bends  the  cypress,  weeping  limb  and  boughs; 

Sad  night  comes  down  to  lave  the  leaf  with  tears; 
Soft,  gentle  zephyrs  sigh  their  wonted  vows 

Unto  the  love  of  life's  departed  years. 

Ten  thousand  days'  bright  dawn  shall  beam  upon  it, 

Ten  thousand  nights'  sweet  stars  shall  come  with  care; 
Ten  thousand  wild-birds'  lovely  warbling  on  it 

Shall  bring  oblations  to  my  Clara  fair. 
Earth's  lengthened  years  are  little  in  His  sight, 

Who  rolls  the  spheres  in  majesty  above; 
Whose  sun  on  high  is  but  a  candle-light, 

To  lead  frail  mortals  to  u  throne  of  love. 


MARY  FT  ART  PRENT18S  CUMMIN  G  8. 


This  lady  was  born  in  Paris,  Jan.  7.  1807,  and  was  married  to  Whitney  Cumming?  of 
West  Sumner,  afterwards  of  Buckfield,  and  died  in  the  latter  town  in  the  spring  of  1878. 
She  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Oxford  Democrat,  Portland  Transcript,  and 
Zlon's  Advocate,  over  the  signature  of  "  Oithona." 


A  DREAM. 

[  saw  in  dreams  last  night  a  favorite  spot. 

One  I  have  seldom  seen  in  latter  years. 

It  was  a  farm  upon  a  mountain's  side, 

Rough  in  appearance,  and  yet  beautiful. 

With  all  its  trees  and  vines,  its  rocks  and  streams. 

'Twas  there  a  relative  I  loved  in  life, 

And  mourned  in  death,  lived  out  his  threescore  years. 

I  ever  loved  to  see  the  tall,  gray  house, 

It  looked  so  like  its  owner,  firm,  upright, 

As  though  'twere  fortified  by  praise  and  prayer. 

L  saw  it  in  my  dream,  with  just  the  look 
[t  wore  of  old;  the  same  vine-shaded  porch, 
And  spreading  trees  around  the  open  door; 
But  of  the  numerous  smiling  faces  there 
In.  days  gone  by,  but  one  arose  to  view. 
It  was  a  youthful  cousin,  who  had  grown 
To  man's  estate  beneath  that  sheltering  roof; 
Hut,  thinking  that  the  world  had  greener  spots 
And  lovelier  scenes,  had  wandered  far  away, 
Long,  long  ago,  from  his  paternal  home. 

In  my  night  vision  he  was  blithe  and  young, 

As  when  I  saw  him  ere  he  bade  adieu 

To  beautiful  Xew  England.     Just  the  same 

Were  the  dark  locks  around  his  ample  brow; 

And  in  his  flashing  eye  were  mingled  deep 

The  energy,  the  softness  and  the  pride 

Which  blended  in  his  character.     No  word 

Was  said  between  us,  yet  I  feel  to-day 

As  though  departed  years  had  come  again. 

And  I  was  living  still  the  hours  of  youth. 

I  bless  the  giver  of  that  happy  dream, 

For  long  has  been  the  time  since  I  have  seen 

That  well-remembered  relative  and  friend. 

And  we,  perchance,  may  never  meet  again. 

8* 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

I  have  a  sprig  of  withered  laurel  leaves 
He  sent  me  from  his  Pennsylvania  home 
In  token  of  remembrance,  and  I  oft 
Look  at  it  now  with  question  in  my  thoughts, 
Whether  that  home  is  dearer  to  his  heart 
Than  the  rough  mountain  one  he  left  behind. 


REVERIES. 

My  child  will  come  no  more, 

My  ministries  of  love 

Are  changed  for  those  above — 
The  little  journey  of  his  life  is  o'er. 

I  see  his  garments  hang 

In  many  a  spot — 

How  can  he  be  forgot, 
Though  every  mem'ry  brings  the  heart  a  pang! 

'Tis  vain  to  change  the  scene — 

From  each  sequestered  nook, 

His  little  treasures  look  ; 
I  cannot  wander  where  he  has  not  been. 

Spring's  glorious  sunbeams  stream, 

And  brightly  do  they  fall, 

Alike  on  floor  and  wall; 
I  Jut  my  lost  boy  looks  out  on  every  beam. 

I  turn  my  eyes  above, 

But  tears  will  force  their  way 

E'en  when  I  strive  to  pray — 
Is  there  no  place  of  rest  for  earthly  love? 

My  young  and  happy  boy— 

I  see  his  glad  step  springing, 

I  hear  his  sweet  voice  singing, 
And  yet  these  mem'ries  bring  no  thrill  of  joy. 

But  why  these  restless  days? 

The  promises  are  mine; 

I  hear  a  voice  divine 
Call  on  my  soul  a  sovereign  God  to  praise. 

Why  spend  my  hours  in  gloom, 

Or  weep  for  treasures  gone, 

When  I  am  hurrying  on 
To  join  them  in  a  world  beyond  the  tomb? 


CHARLES  PARKKU  ILSLEY.  95 


My  cherished  one  is  there, 

He  spends  his  glorious  days 

In  songs  of  holy  praise 
To  Him  who  heard  on  earth  his  daily  prayer 

Then  let  my  heart  arise 

To  his  bright  home  above, 

And  to  the  God  of  love 
Look  for  a  blessing  on  "  earth's  broken  ties.' 


Charles  P.  llsley  was  born  in  Portland,  Jan.  16, 1807,  and  lived  to  the  good  old  age  of 
eighty  years,  his  death  occurring  Jan.  29, 1887,  at  his  residence  in  Cambridge,  Massachu 
setts.  In  early  life  Mr.  llsley  followed  the  occupation  of  a  book-keeper,  but  having  a 
manifest  taste  for  literature  he  turned  to  newspaper  work,  and  as  early  as  1836  started  a 
daily  penny  paper,  the  rortlnnil  l)mly  Times.  The  venture  was  in  advance  of  that 
period,  and'  was  abandoned.  April  12,  1837,  he  issued  the  first  number  of  the  Portland 
Transcript,  and  was  its  editor  for  a  number  of  years.  Had  he  lived  a  little  more  than 
two  months  longer  he  Avould  have  seen  this  second  offspring  of  his  journalistic  ventures 
complete  its  half  century  of  prosperous  existence.  Mr.  llsley  was  the  author  of  a  vol 
ume  of  popular  tales,  entitled  "  Forest  and  Shore,"  and  of  many  contributions  in  prose 
and  verse  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  times.  He  was  at  one  time  associated  with 
Edward  P.  Weston  as  assistant  editor  of  the  Eclectic,  which  was  eventually  united  with 
the  Transcript,  now  in  its  52d  year.  Mr.  llsley  wielded  a  graceful  and  ready  pen,  and 
was  more  or  less  connected  with  the  newspapers  of  Portland  for  a  period  of  fifty-one 
years,  being  one  of  the  oldest  journalists  of  the  country.  He  furnished  a  hymn,  sung  at 
the  centennial  celebration  of  Portland,  and  wrote  a  very  interesting  series  of  articles  for 
the  Transcript  descriptive  of  his  native  city  half  a  century  ago.  He  wrote  very  smooth 
verse,  and  his  tales  were  of  historic  interest  and  ahvays  racy.  He  will  hold  a  prominent 
place  among  the  authors  of  Maine. 


THE  LATTEK  SNOW. 
Our  Heavenly  Father  kindly  doth  bestow 

The  "latter  rain,"  a  blessing  to  the  earth; 
Likewise  he  giveth  us  the  latter  snow, 

The  poor  man's  treasure-boon  of  priceless  worth: 
Yet  seemeth  it  to  some  a  cere-cloth  spread 
To  veil  from  view7  the  features  of  the  dead. 

Ah,  this  is  but  a  counterfeit  of  death! 

The  earth  but  slumbers  'neath  tlie  fleecy  pall; 
Sleeping,  she  waits  the  spring's  reviving  breath 

To  loose  the  frosty  fetters  that  enthrall ; 
When,  once  more  freed,  with  renovated  powers, 
She'll  robe  herself  anew  with  fruits  and  flowers. 

Nature  sleeps  not;  within  her  depths  doth  work 

A  vital  principle  that  knows  no  rest; 
Her  silent  forces  ever  are  at  work, 

Strictly  obedient  to  supreme  behest, 
Keen  though  her  vision,  Science  seeks  in  vain 
The  wonder-working  mystery  to  explain. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Breathe  not  a  murmur  at  the  latter  snow; 

Beneath  the  shroud  that  whitens  all  the  earth, 
Are  pregnant  gems,  biding  the  process  slow 

That  in  due  time  shall  quicken  them  to  birth; 
As  from  the  hitter  rain  and  gentle  dews 
The  wasted  soil  her  power  from  it  renew*. 

Have  patience  but  a  little,  thou  shalt  see 
The  working  of  the  miracle  profound: 

First  bud,  then  leaf,  shall  clothe  the  naked  tree, 
And  tender  grass  with  verdure  deck  the  ground 

The  fecund  earth  throughout  her  wide  domain, 

Shall  yield  her  treasures  manifold  again. 


"OH,  THIS  IS  NOT  MY  HOME.1' 


Oh,  this  is  not  my  home — 

[  miss  the  glorious  sea, 
Its  white  and  sparkling  foam, 

And  lofty  melody. 

All  things  seem  strange  to  me — 

I  miss  the  rocky  shore, 
Where  broke  so  sullenly 

The  waves  with  deaf  ning  roar: 

The  sands  that  shone  like  gold 
Beneath  the  blazing  sun, 

O'er  which  the  waters  rolled, 
Soft  chanting  as  they  run : 


And  oh,  the  glorious  sight! 

Ships  moving  to  and  fro , 
Like  birds  upon  their  flight, 

So  silently  they  go ! 

I  climb  the  mountain's  height, 
And  sadly  gaze  around, 

No  waters  meet  my  sight, 
I  hear  no  rushing  sound. 

Oh,  would  I  were  at  home, 
Beside  the  glorious  sea, 

To  bathe  within  its  foam. 
And  list  its  melody ! 


HAPPY  MOMENTS. 

Happy  moments,  brief  but  truthful, 
When  the  heart  was  fresh  and  youthful — 
When  the  sands  of  life  ran  golden. 
In  those  days,  alas,  now  olden! 
Moments  that  we  fondly  cherished — 
Moments  that  too  early  perished! 

Ah,  that  time,  so  fraught  with  blessings! 
Time  of  love's  first  fondcaressings! 
When  each  act,  glance,  tone,  expression, 
Was  to  us  a  sweet  confession : 
When  our  path  was  strewn  with  flowers. 
And  joy  winged  the  rosy  hours! 


IIENR  Y  WADS  WOR  111  L ONGFELL O  W.  97 


Ah,  could  we  but  hoard  emotions 

Kindled  in  our  young  devotions — 

Hoard  them  for  life's  latter  pleasures 

As  we  hoard  our  grosser  treasures — 

Then  those  rays  that  cheered  life's  morning 

Still  would  beam,  its  eve  adorning! 


Wenr!l  y^dsworth  j^onyf/elfaw. 

This  poet,  scholar  and  teacher,  was  born  in  Portland,  February  27. 1807,  of  New  England 
stock,  and  died  at  his  home  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  March  24, 1882.  He  was  descended  from 
John  Aldeii,  of  Plymouth  Colony  fame,  his  great-grandfather,  Stephen  Longfellow,  corn 
ing  to  Portland  in  1744,  as  a  schoolmaster,  at  the  invitation  of  the  town,  and  the  family 
has  been  prominent  in  this  place  through  tiye  generations.  His  father,  Hon.  Stephen 
Longfellow,  was  a  man  of  prominence  in  Maine,  a  leader  of  the  bar,  and  representative 
in  Congress.  The  son's  early  education  was  gained  at  the  Portland  Academy,  where  he 
was  fitted  for  Bowdoin  College,  which  he  entered  at  fourteen.  Even  before  this  time  he 
had  written  verses  which  always  found  ready  admission  into  the  Portland  newspapers, 
and  before  graduation  his  reputation  as  a  poet  extended  beyond  the  bounds  of  both  col 
lege  and  State.  He  graduated  in  the  class  of  1825,  and  six  months  afterward  was  offered 
a  professorship  of  modern  languages  and  literature  at  Bowdoin,  an  office  created  for  him. 
The  appointment  was  accepted  conditionally,  and  after  studying  three  years  and  a  half 
in  Europe,  he  entered  upon  his  new  duties.  During  the  next  five  years  he  wrote  for  the 
North  American  Review,  and  translated  the  "  Coplas  de  Manrique,"  a  work  which  placed 
him  in  the  front  rank  of  living  poets.  Since  then  the  name  of  Longfellow  has  been  a 
household  word,  and  his  books,  both  in  prose  arid  verse,  have  been  translated  into  nearly 
every  tongue.  He  received  honorary  degrees  in  both  the  New  and  Old  Worlds,  and  was 
a  member  of  various  learned  societies  in  several  countries. 


MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thoughts  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.'' 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


7  II K  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 
And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing1  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore. 

And  the  tort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sun-rise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar. 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 
u  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.' 

I  remember  the  sea-tight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 
And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song. 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 

Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 


HENRY  WAD8WOHTH  LONGFELLOW.  99 


And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song- 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak. 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill: 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still  : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain, 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still  : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


THE  ROPE- WALK. 

In  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin. 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin, 

Dropping  each  a  hempen  bulk. 


100  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


At  the  end,  an  open  door; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane ; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  re-ascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well; 
As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round. 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
Faces  iixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth : 
Ah!  it  is  the  gallows-tree! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity. 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the-  earth  ! 


HENR Y  WADS  WOR Til  L ONGFELL O  W.  101 


Then  a  schoolboy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field ; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand: 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  1  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT.* 
Many  a  day  and  wasted  year, 
Bright  has  left  its  footsteps  here, 
Since  was  broke  the  warrior's  spear, 

And  our  fathers  bled; 
Still  the  tall  trees  arching  shake 
Where  the  fleet  deer  by  the  lake, 
As  he  dashed  through  bush  and  brake, 

From  the  hunter  fled. 

In  these  ancient  woods  so  bright, 
That  are  full  of  life  and  light, 
Many  a  dark,  mysterious  rite 

The  stern  warriors  kept ; 
But  their  altars  are  bereft, 
Fallen  to  earth  and  strewn  and  cleft, 
And  to  holier  faith  is  left, 

Where  their  fathers  slept. 

From  their  ancient  sepulchres, 
Where,  amid  the  giant  firs, 
Moaning  where  the  high  wind  stirs, 
Have  the  red  men  gone. 


*This  is  the  fir»t  poem  Longfellow  gave  to  the  world  with  his  name  attached  some 
sixty-five  years  ago.  The  poem  was  long  sought  by  the  author,  but  in  vain,  and  was 
brought  to  light  in  1882.  We  copy  it  from  the  "  Fryeburg  Webster  Memorial  "  as  it 
has  a  special  local  interest. 


102  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Towards  the  setting  sun  that  makes 
Bright  our  western  hills  and  lakes, 
Faint  and  few  the  remnant  takes 
Its  sad  journey  on. 

Where  the  Indian  hamlet  stood. 
En  the  interminable  wood, 
Battle  broke  the  solitude, 

And  the  war-cry  rose ; 
Sudden  came  the  straggling  "shot, 
Where  the  sun  looked  on  the  spot 
That  the  trace  of  war  would  blot 

Ere  the  day's  faint  close. 

Low  the  smoke  of  battle  hung, 
Heavy  down  the  lake  it  swung, 
Till  the  death-wail  loud  was  sung, 

When  the  night-shades  fell; 
And  the  green  pine,  waving  dark, 
Held  within  its  shattered  bark 
Many  a  lasting  scath  and  mark 

That  a  tale  could  tell. 

And  the  glory  of  that  day 
Shall  not  pass  from  earth  away, 
Nor  the  blighting  of  decay 

Waste  our  liberty; 
But  within  the  river's  sweep, 
Long  in  peace  our  vale  shall  sleep, 
And  free  hearts  the  record  keep 

Of  this  Jubilee.* 


SON  GO  RIVEK. 

CONNECTING    LAKE    SEBAGO    AND    LONG    LAKE. 

Nowhere  such  a  devious  stream, 
Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 
Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake, 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 


•This  poem  was  written  for  and  sung  (to  the  air  of  Bruce' s  Address)  at  the  Centennial 
celebration,  at  Fryeburg,  of  Lovewell's  fight,  May  19, 1825.  Longfellow  was  himself  pres 
ent  at  the  celebration,  attending  a  social  levee  at  Judge  Dana's,  and  a  ball  in  the  evening 
at  the  Oxford  House.  "  WEBSTER  MEMORIAL." 


HENRY  \VAD8WORTH  LONGFELLOW.  103 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf , 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow, 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 

Never  errant-knight  of  old, 
Lost  in  woodland  or  in  wold, 
Such  a  winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

N  ever  school-boy  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 
Through  the  forest  in  and  out, 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

•Swift  as  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 
Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream !  thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame; 
For  thou  bidest  here  alone, 
Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 
Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way  : 

"  Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet! 
Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste ! 

"  Be  not  like  the  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 


104  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS.* 

What  say  the  bells  of  San  Bias 
To  the  ships  that  southward  pass 

From  the  harbor  of  Mazatlan? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore, — 

Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 

But  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 

Are  often  one  and  the  same, — 
The  bells  of  San  Bias  to  me 
Have  a  strange,  wild  melody, 

And  are  something  more  than  a  name. 

For  bells  are  the  voice  of  the  church; 
They  have  tones  that  touch  and  search 

The  hearts  of  young  and  old; 
One  sound  to  all,  yet  each 
Lends  a  meaning  to  their  speech, 

And  the  meaning  is  manifold. 

They  are  a  voice  of  the  Past, 
Of  an  age  that  is  fading  fast, 

Of  a  power  austere  and  grand; 
When  the  flag  of  Spain  unfurled 
Its  folds  o'er  this  western  world, 

And  the  Priest  was  lord  of  the  land. 

The  chapel  that  once  looked  down 
On  the  little  seaport  town 

Has  crumbled  into  the  dust; 
And  on  oaken  beams  below 
The  bells  swing  to  and  fro, 

And  are  green  with  mould  and  rust. 

"Is,  then,  the  old  faith  dead," 
They  say,  "and  in  its  stead 

Is  some  new  faith  proclaimed. 
That  we  are  forced  to  remain 
Naked  to  sun  and  rain, 

Unsheltered  and  ashamed? 

"  Once  in  our  tower  aloof 
We  range  over  wall  and  roof 

Our  warnings  and  our  complaints: 

*The  last  poem  written  by  Longfellow,  under  date  of  March  15,  1832. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE.  105 


And  round  about  us  there 
The  white  doves  iilled  the  air, 

Like  the  white  souls  of  the  saints. 

"  The  saints!     Ah,  have  they  grown 
Forgetful  of  their  own? 

Are  they  asleep,  or  dead, 
That  open  to  the  sky 
Their  ruined  Missions  lie, 

No  longer  tenanted? 

"Oh,  bring  us  back  once  more 
The  vanished  days  of  yore, 

When  the  world  with  faith  was  filled ; 
Bring  back  the  fervid  zeal, 
The  hearts  of  tire  and  steel, 

The  hands  that  believe  and  build. 

"Then  from  our  tower  again 
We  will  send  over  land  and  main 

Our  voices  of  command, 
Like  exiled  kings  who  return 
To  their  thrones,  and  the  people  learn 

That  the  Priest  is  lord  of  the  land !" 

O  Bells  of  San  Bias,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  past  again  ! 

The  past  is  deaf  to  your  prayer : 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light; 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere. 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  regarded  by  some  as  the  greatest  genius  America  lias  produced 
was  born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  in  1804,  and  graduated  from  Bowdoin  College  in  the 
same  class  Avith  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  •  He  was  induced,  through  a  promise  in 
college  to  his  classmate,  the  Rev.  George  B.  Cheever,  to  write  for  the  press,  and  it  is  said 
that  this  old  friend  infused  into  the  desponding  genius  "somewhat  of  his  own  life  and 
spirit."  Goodrich,  who  was  editing  an  annual  in  Boston,  published  the  first  contribution 
from  his  pen,  and  thus  Hawthorne  was  set  forth  on  his  shining  way.  The  new  star  WHS 
hailed  with  generous  enthusiasm  by  Longfellow, who  in  a  review  of  his  "  Twice-Told  Tales" 
said:  "  The  book,  though  in  prose,  is  nevertheless  written  by  a  poet.  What  is  worthy  of 
mention,  he  never  wrote  poetry,  not  even  a  carrier's  address."  And  yet  a  curious  frag 
ment  of  verse,  we  could  hardly  say  poetry,  was  written  by  NathanierHawthorne  in  his 
early  youth,  when  he  \vas  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  residing  with  his  mother  at 
Raymond, Me.,  where  she,  grieving  for  the  loss  of  her  husband,  had  sought  and  found 
complete  seclusion.  He  was  a  shipmaster,  and  died  of  yellow  fever  at  Havana  in  1810. 
A  correspondent  of  the  Portland  Transcript,  writing  from  Alexandria,  Vaf,  under  date 
OI  June  4,  1870,  while  giving  some  interesting  reminiscences  of  the  boy  life  of  Haw 
thorne  at  Raymond,  mentions  the  incident  of  the  reading  of  two  poems  by^'Nat"  to  his 


1(X;  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


companions  who  thought  them  "  terrible  pretty."  One  of  these  pieces  related  to  the 
Tarbox  disaster,  but  the  correspondent  could  not  recollect  a  line  of  either.  In  a  note  by 
the  editor  he  states  "  We  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  procure  the  fragment  given 
below,"— alluding  to  a  fragment  of  the  other  poem.  He  then  continues:  "A  West  Harps- 
well  correspondent,  '  M.  O.  B.,'  says,— 'I  find  it  in  a  copy-book  of  my  mother's,  where  it 
was  written  in  1819,  though  for  some  reason  all  the  verses  are  not  written.'  Doubtless 
some  other  old  copy-book  will  yet  give  up  the  remainder  of  this  curious  ballad.  "Our 
readers  "  continues  the  editor  of  the  Transcript,  "will  be  reminded  of  what  one  of  our 
correspondents  said  about  the  austere  religious  training  of  the  boy,  by  the  pious  ejacu 
lations  contained  in  these  verses."  We  publish  a  few  lines  of  this  curious  fragment, 
simply  on  account  of  their  association.  The  life  and  works  of  Hawthorne  are  too  well- 
known  to  need  an  extended  sketch.  He  died  in  the  spring  of  1864,  while  on  a  journey 
through  New  Hampshire,  accompanied  by  his  life-long  friend,  ex-President  Pierce. 


A  MOURNFUL  SONG. 

On  the  death  of  the  wife  and  child  of  Mr.  Nathaniel  Knight,  of  Wind- 
ham,  who  fell  off  the  bridge  at  the  falls  above  Horse-beef  Mills,  on  Presump- 
scot  river,  Feb.  22,  1804. 

All  ye  kind  husbands,  pray  draw  near, 
Attend  to  me  with  listening  ear, 
While  solemnly  I  show  to  you 
An  awful  scene,  but  surely  true. 
And  loving  wives,  do  you  draw  round, 
To  you  indeed  a  solemn  sound ; 
O  Lord,  come  nigh,  and  help  us  all, 
To  hear  this  loud  awakening  call. 
And  thou,  my  soul,  come  meditate 
Upon  the  stroke  of  death  so  late. 
Lord,  help  my  mind  and  pen  and  heart 
To  give  to  all  their  proper  part. 
This  hapless  man  and  wife  so  dear, 
To  worship  God,  meant  to  appear. 
Towards  His  house  they  both  did  ride 
With  her  young  child  held  at  her  side ; 
But  o'er  the  bridge  as  they  did  ride, 
His  headstrong  horse  he  could  not  guide, 
And  springing  out  to  hold  him  right, 
He  could  not  with  his  utmost  might, 
And,  notwithstanding  his  loud  "Whoa!"* 
His  horse  and  sleigh  o'erboard  did  go. 
His  wife  and  child  plunged  in  the  deep, 
While  he  upon  the  bridge  did  keep. 
He  reached  his  whip  to  his  dear  wife, 
Which  she  seized  fast  to  save  her  life. 


*The  phraseology  of  this  line  has  been  slightly  o 
sen  is  evidently  not  exactly  like  the  original. 


.hinged  by  the  compiler,  as  the  copy 


FEE  DEE  1C  M  ELL  EN.  107 


Son  of  the  distinguished  jurist,  Chief  Justice  Preiitiss  Mellen,  and  younger  brother  of 
Grenville  Mellen;  was  born  in  Biddeford,  Maine,  Dec.  3,  1804.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoiu 
College  in  the  same  class  with  Henry  W.  Longfellow.  He  studied  law,  and  opened  an 
office  in  Portland,  but  his  tastes  inclining  to  poetry  and  art,  he  never  practiced  to  any  ex 
tent.  He  not  only  possessed  a  very  delightful  and  delicate  poetic  talent,  but  bade  fair 
to  arrive  at  distinction  in  the  art  of  painting,  having  a  peculiar  aptitude  for  the  finest 
combinations  of  forms  and  colors.  Some  of  his  landscapes  are  still  in  the  possession  of 
families  in  Portland.  He  removed  to  Boston,  and  died  there  Aug.  13,1834.  Mr.  Mellen 
had  a  happy,  genial  disposition,  devoted  to  the  elegant  work  of  his  choice,  but  careless  of 
fame.  The  Portland  Transcript,  under  date  of  Dec.  9,  1882,  gave  an  unpublished  poem 
from  his  pen. 


SABBATH  EVENING. 

List!  there  is  music  in  the  air! 

It  is  the  Sabbath  evening  bell, 
Chiming  the  vesper  hour  of  prayer 

O'er  mountain  top  and  lowland  dell. 
And  infancy  and  age  are  seen, 
Slow  winding  o'er  the  church-yard  green. 

It  is  the  eve  of  rest;  the  light 
Still  lingers  on  the  moss-grown  tower, 

While  to  the  drowsy  ear  of  night, 
Slowly  it  marks  the  evening  hour; 

'Tis  hushed!  and  all  is  silent  there, 

Save  the  low,  fervent  voice  of  prayer. 

And  now,  far  down  the  quiet  vale, 
Sweet  hymnings  on  the  air  float  by ; 

Hushing  the  whip-poor-will's  sad  wail, 
With  its  own  plaintive  melody. 

They  breathe  of  peace,  like  the  sweet  strains 

That  swept  at  night  o'er  Bethlehem's  plains. 

And  heads  are  bowed,  as  the  low  hymn 
Steals  through  that  gray  and  time-worn  pile ; 

And  the  altar-lights  burn  faint  and  dim, 
In  the  long  and  moss-grown  aisle. 

And  the  distant  footfall  echoes  loud, 

Above  that  hushed  and  kneeling  crowd. 

And  now  beneath  the  old  elm  shade, 

Where  the  cold  moon-beams  may  not  smile, 

Bright  flowers  upon  the  graves  are  laid, 
And  sad  tears  shed  unseen  the  while, — 

The  last  sweet  gift  affection  brings, 

To  deck  the  earth  to  which  it  clings. 


108  THE  rOKTti  OF  MAINE. 

How  beautiful  those  simple  flowers 
Strewn  o'er  that  silent  spot  now  sleep; 

Still  wet  with  summer's  gentle  showers, 
As  if  they  too  could  feel  and  weep ! 

They  fade  and  die ;  the  wintry  wind 

Shall  leave  no  trace  of  them  behind. 

The  bright  new  moon  hath  set;  the  light 
Is  fading  on  the  far  blue  hills; 

And  on  the  passing  breeze  of  night, 
The  music  of  ten  thousand  rills 

Comes  echoing  through  the  twilight  gray, 

With  the  lone  watch-dog's  distant  bay. 

The  crowd  hath  passed  away;  the  prayer 
And  low-breathed  evening  hymn  are  gone; 

The  cold  mist  only  lingers  there, 
O'er  the  dark  moss  and  mould'ring  stone: 

And  the  stars  shine  brightly  o'er  the  glen 

Where  rest  the  quiet  homes  of  men. 


V  K  N  ET I  AX  M(  )ON  LIGH  T. 

'T  was  moonlight  on  Veiietia's  sea, 
And  every  fragrant  bower  and  tree 

Smiled  in  the  glorious  light. 
The  thousand  isles  that  clustered  there 
Ne'er  in  their  life  looked  half  so  fail- 
As  on  that  happy  night. 

A  thousand  sparkling  lights  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret, 

While  through  the  marble  halls 
The  gush  of  cooling  fountains  came, 
And  crystal  lamps  sent  far  their  flame 

Upon  the  high-arched  walls. 

But  sweeter  far  on  Adda's  sea, 
The  gondolier's  wild  minstrelsy 

In  accents  low  began; 
While  sounding  harp  and  martial  zell, 
The  music  joined,  till  the  rich  swell 

Seemed  heaven's  wide  arch  to  span. 

Then  faintly  ceasing — one  by  one. 
That  plaintive  voice  breathed  on  alone. 
Its  wild,  heart-soothing  lay: 


ELIZABETH  OAKER  SMITH.  109 


And  then  again  that  moonlight  band, 
Started  as  if  by  magic  wand, 
In  one  bold  burst  away. 

The  joyous  laugh  came  on  the  breeze, 
And,  'mid  the  bright  o'erhanging  trees, 

Tlie  mazy  dance  went  round  ; 
And,  as  in  joyous  ring  they  flew, 
The  smiling  nymphs  the  wild  flowers  threw, 

That  clustered  on  the  ground. 

Soft  as  a  summer  evening's  sigh, 
From  each  o'erhanging  balcony, 

Low,  fervent  whisperings  fell; 
And  many  a  heart  upon  that  night 
On  fancy's  pinions  sped  its  light 

Where  holier  beings  dwell. 

Each  lovely  form  the  eye  might  see, 
The  dark-browed  maid  of  Italy, 

With  love's  own  sparkling  eyes; 
The  fairy  Swiss  —  all  —  all  that  night 
Smiled  in  the  moonbeam's  silvery  light, 

Fair  as  their  native  skies. 


This  is  one  of  the  most  noted  American  women  now  living.  She  was  Elizabeth  Oakes 
Prince,  born  in  the  city  of  Portland,  about  1807,  and  was  united  in  marriage  to  Seba 
Smith,  Esq.,  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  in  1823.  She  is  Mrs.  Oaksmith  by  cour 
tesy,  and  her  sons  are  Oaksmiths  by  act  of  legislature.  Mrs.  Smith  has  had  six  sons,  of 
whom  any  mother  might  well  be  'proud;  two  of  them  have  been  marriecL  and  three  of 
them  are  still  living.  Mrs.  Smith  has  long  stood  before  the  public  eye  as  Essayist.  Poet, 
Novelist,  Lecturer  and  preacher.  Her  rirst  poem  of  any  length  was  published  in  1842,  un 
der  the  title  of  "The  Sinless  Child,"  and  contained  some  of  the  most  beautiful  passages 
in  the  English  language.  Mrs.  Smith  possesses  a  highly  cultured  and  enlarged  mind, 
has  been  a  pioneer  in  more  than  one  new  field  for  female  talent,  and  well  deserves  the 
position  she  occupies  in  the  front  rank  of  the  gifted  writers  of  the  day.  The  late  E.  P. 
Whipple,  Emerson,  Theodore  Parker,  and  a  host  of  other  advanced  thinkers,  were  her 
life-long  friends,  and  admirers  of  Mrs.  Smith's  literary  work.  We  are  informed  by 
letter  from  Mrs.  Smith  that  her  Autobiography  is  well  under  way.  Not  only  her  own 
boys,  but  several  of  her  grandchildren,  are  poets.  May  this  estimable  lady,  who  has  lived 
to  a  serene  old  age,  until  the  very  hist  have  complete  control  over  the  domain  of  thought 
and  emotion. 


THE  AMARANTH. 

Thou  art  not  of  earth,  thou  beautiful  thing, 
With  thy  changeless  form  and  hue — 

For  thou  in  thy  heart  hast  ever  borne 
A  drop  of  that  living  dew 

That  nourished  thee,  when  earth  was  young, 

And  the  music  of  Eden  around  thee  rung. 


110  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


Thou  art  not  of  earth;  no  change  is  thine — 

No  touch  of  death  or  decay; 
And  the  airs  that  fanned  thee  in  Paradise, 

Seem  over  thy  leaves  to  play; 
And  they  whisper  still  of  fadeless  bowers, 
Where  never  shall  wither  the  blooming  flowers. 

Thou  art  not  of  earth;  thou  changest  not 

When  the  wintry  blast  is  nigh, 
Though  thy  scattered  leaves  are  wildly  tossed 

On  the  wind  as  it  rushes  by; 
For  even  then,  in  that  hour  of  dread. 
Not  a  hue  of  beauty  hath  left  the  dead. 

I  deem  that  Eve,  when  in  terror  forced 

From  her  Eden  home  to  part, 
Must  have  sadly  looked  on  those  fadeless  bowers, 

And  clasped  thee  to  her  heart — 
And  thou  in  thy  exile  still  dost  tell 
Of  a  changeless  home  where  the  good  shall  dwell. 

PROGRESSION. 
Hope  on,  hope  on,  O  restless  heart! 

Though  dark  the  hour  may  be — 
For  e'en  in  all  thy  struggles  know 

A  glory  waits  for  thee ! 
O  keep  thee  still  the  dew  of  youth — 
Still  hold  thou  fast  unto  the  truth. 

What  though  the  strong  desires  sent  forth 

Unequal  ends  attain — 
And  thy  intensest  thought  result 

That  all  of  earth  is  vain — 
O  not  in  vain,  if  truth  and  right 
But  arm  thee  with  heroic  might. 

Toil  on,  for  like  the  pillared  stone 
O'er  which  the  moss  has  crept, 

And  veiled  the  record  there  inscribed 
While  ages  round  it  slept — 

Thus,  thou  mayst  on  thy  tablet  read 

A  truth  to  meet  thine  utmost  need ; 

Hast  thou,  in  this  unequal  strife, 

But  tendest  to  a  goal, 
Whose  object  realized  shall  till 

The  vastness  of  the  soul — 
These  ardent  hopes — these  wishes  high, 
Belong  to  that  which  cannot  die. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH.  Ill 


THE  SAME  OLD  SONG. 
Mothers,  out  of  the  mother-heart, 

Fashion  a  song  both  soft  and  low, 
Always  the  same  dear  mother  art, 

Rocking  the  baby  to  and  fro, 
Always  a  lazy,  loving  crone, 
Hummed  in  a  sleepy  undertone. 

Down  the  baby  snuggles  to  sleep, 
Winking  as  long  as  wink  he  may; 

Now  with  a  kick  he  tries  to  keep 
The  tricksy  god  from  his  eyes  away. 

"  We-wa,  We-wa,"  long  ago, 

The  Indian  mother  chanted  low. 

"  We-eng,"  she  said,  on  the  baby's  brow, 
Softly  struck  with  his  wee  war-club; 

Astride  of  his  nose  he  playeth  slow 
With  his  little  fist  a  rub-a-dub. 

"We-wa,  We-wa,"  tender  and  low, 

Rocking  the  baby  to  and  fro. 

"  Le-ro-la,  Le-ro-la,"  ever  a  hum. 

Like  murmuring  bees  in  the  golden  light. 

Under  the  palm  trees  mothers  come — 
Ethiope  mothers,  dark  as  night — 

Chanting  the  same  old  silvery  flow. 

Rocking  the  baby  to  and  fro. 

Mothers,  too,  with  the  snowy  skin, 
"  Bye-lo,  Bye-lo,"  tenderly  sing, 

And  tell  of  the  dustman  coming  in, 
Into  the  baby's  eyes  to  fling 

Atoms  of  dust,  to  make  him  wink, 

And  into  Dreamland  gently  sink. 

"  We-wa,  We-wa,"  "Bye-lo,  Bye-lo," 
"Le-ro-la,  Le-ro-la,"  tenderly  sing, 

Kver  the  tune  of  the  long  ago, 
Out  of  the  motherly  heart  it  came, 

Born  of  a  sense  that  mothers  know, 

Rocking  the  baby  to  and  fro. 

Black  or  white  or  bronze  the  hue, 

Always  the  same  sweet  tune  is  heard, 

The  sweetest  song  earth  ever  knew, 
Happy  as  thrill  of  the  nestling  bird. 

Mothers,  content  in  the  twilight  glow, 

Are  rocking  their  babies  to  ;ind  fro. 


112  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Mothers,  out  of  the  mother-heart, 
Fashion  a  song  both  sweet  and  !<>v 

Always  the  same  dear  mother  art, 
Rooking  the  baby  to  and  fro. 

Always  a  lazy,  loving  crone, 

Hummed  in  a  dreamy  undertone. 


TO  PORTLAND. 

KKO.M     A    (  K.VTKXXIAI.    I'OKM. 

O  City  of  my  heart!  in  dreams, 

Sweet  dreams,  1  see  thee  as  of  yore, 
And  catch  the  light's  first  early  beams 

Glint  over  White  Head's  roar; 
Old  Ocean's  Daughter!  beam  with  smiles, 

And  wear  thy  royal  crest. 
Three  hundred  sixty-five  green  isles 

Sleep  on  old  Casco's  breast. 

And  each  is  fair  and  bright  to  see, 

With  tuft  of  breezy  pine, 
Where  1  have  often  longed  to  be 

In  these  long  years  of  mine : 
Accept,  fair  daughter  of  the  sea, 

A  simple,  loving  rhyme, 
For  thou  hast  always  been  to  me, 

A  tender,  solemn  chime, 

Such  as  the  mariner  has  heard 

Far  out  upon  the  sea, 
Where  hell  of  church  or  song  of  bird 

Could  never  hope  to  be. 
But  village  bell  and  song  of  bird 

Had  furnished  memory's  cell 
With  many  a  whispered  sound  and  word 

Remembered  over- well. 


Neal  dashed  his  hand  with  daring  sweep, 

And  sang  how  Alpine  snow. 
Remorseless,  leaped  from  ancient  sleep, 

And  buried  deep  Goldean ; 
And  Mellen!  "Lone,  imperial  bird," 

That  "stooped  his  tireless  wing," 
By  Portland  poets  should  be  heard, 

With  no  uncertain  ring. 


K  Pint  AIM  PEABODY.  113 


They  who  may  never  hope  to  reach 

The  higher  round  of  fame. 
Lay  down  their  laurels  all  and  each, 

At  Longfellow's  pure  name; 
But  who  can  tell  how  sad  the  soul 

Shrank  from  the  stripe  away, 
As  years  on  years,  the  deathless  roll, 

Ignored  their  humble  lay! 

Farewell!  oh,  daughter  of  the  sea, 

Right  royally  thy  throne 
O'erlooks  the  isles  that  wait  on  thee, 

Where  White  Head  sits  alone: 
Thy  regal  head  bears  not  a  scar 

From  all  the  perils  past; 
Thine  is  the  glory  of  the  star, 

When  skies  are  overcast! 


I\ev.  Kphraim  Peabody,  born  in  Wilton,  N.  H.,  in  1807,  and  who  received  his  school 
training  first  at  Dummer  Academy,  Byfield,  was  a  graduate  of  Bowdoin  College,  in  the 
class  of  1827.  Several  members  of  this  class  published  in  the  Senior  year  a  periodical 
called  the  Escritoir,  which  was  the  only  periodical  of  the  kind  that  had  ever  been  pub 
lished  by  the  Bowdoin  students.  Dr.  Peabody  was  also  concerned  in  the  Lafayette  Hoax 
in  Brunswick,  when  Cleaveland  played  the  part  of  Lafayette  even  to  the  most  tender 
salutation  of  the  ladies.  Mr.  Peabody  became  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  and  in  1846  was 
settled  over  King's  Chapel,  Boston  where  he  preached  acceptably  for  ten  rears.  He  died 
in  1S5G. 


NKilfT  IN  THE  WOODS. 

The  unfathomable  cope  of  heaven! 

The  deep  and  silent  sky ! 
Through  the  narrow  forest  opening. 

Looks  down  its  peaceful  eye. 
The  tranquil  stars  pass  o'er  me  one  by  one — 
The  silver  clouds  rise  up — float  o'er — are  gone. 

The  forest  pines  which  circle  round 

Like  dark  towers  at  my  side, 
But  show  the  depths  of  the  dim  vault. 

Where  the  holy  stars  abide. 
Unsounded  void!  yet  deepening  whilst  I  gaze, 
Till  the  eye  swims  that  through  thy  clear  deep  strays. 


114  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

The  night  is  hushed  like  sleep; — the  rour 

Of  the  great  wilderness  is  still: 
The  breeze  is  sleeping  midst  its  leaves. 

The  brook  beneath  its  hill; 

On  branch  and  leaf,  and  in  their  gloomy  shade, 
The  silence  of  eternity  is  laid. 

The  moving  heavens!  the  Spirit's  power 

In  glory  bids  them  roll; 
The  music  of  the  many  spheres — 

'Tis  sounding  through  the  soul! 
The  Vast!  the  Beautiful!  in  mystery, 
Deep  in  the  soul's  abyss  unseen  they  lie. 

Sea — heavens — ye  settled  hills  that  lift 

Your  brows  into  the  blue, 
Like  altars  reared  to  God — the  soul 

Is  mightier  than  you,— 

Yea,  gives  you  all  your  glory — gives  the  light, 
Which  lifts  you  up  from  nothingness  and  night. 

O  God!  who  breathed  into  the  soul 
A  power  from  thine  own  power, 

Teach  me  to  know  the  uncounted  worth 
Of  this  celestial  dower. 

O  may  I  ne'er  defile  with  earth  and  sense 

This  image  of  thine  own  Omnipotence. 


WEST'S  PICTURE  OF  THE  INFANT  SAMUEL. 

In  childhood's  spring — ah!  blessed  spring! 

(As  flowers  closed  up  at  even, 
Unfold  in  morning's  earliest  beam.) 

The  heart  unfolds  to  heaven. 
Ali!  blessed  child!  that  trustingly 

Adores,  and  loves,  and  fears, 
And  to  a  Father's  voice  replies. 

Speak,  Lord!  thy  servant  hears. 

When  youth  shall  come — ah!  blessed  youth  ! 

If  still  the  pure  heart  glows, 
And  in  the  world  and  word  of  God. 

Its  Maker's  language  knows; 
If  in  the  night  and  in  the  day, 

'Midst  youthful  joys  or  fears, 
The  trusting  heart  can  answer  still. 

Speak,  Lord!  thy  servant  hears. 


ELLEN  MERRILL  BAR  STOW. 


115 


When  age  shall  come  —  ah  !  blessed  age  ! 

[f  in  its  lengthening  shade, 
When  life  grows  faint,  and  earthly  light 

Recede,  and  sink,  and  fade  ; 
Ah!  blessed  age!  if  then  heaven's  light 

Dawns  on  the  closing  eye; 
And  faith  unto  the  call  of  God, 

Can  answer,  "Here  am  I!" 


lkn  Merrill 


Ellen  Merrill  Barstow  was  born  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  May  17, 1807.  In  early  childhood 
her  family  moved  to  Portland,  Me.,  where  she  resided  the  remainder  of  her  life.  In 
January,  1830,  she  married  Geo.  S.  Barstow,  of  that  city.  Devoted  to  the  home  circle 
where  her  character  shone  with  the  greatest  lustre,  she  yet  found  a  large  margin  of 
time  for  works  of  more  general  benefit.  Flowers,  literature,  and  active  benevolent  or 
ganizations,  each  found  in  her  an  interest  that  never  waned.  During  many  years  her 
facile  pen  made  occasional  contributions  in  prose  and  verse  to  our  secular  and  religious 
papers.  She  was  called  to  her  "  eternal  home,"  August  17, 1873. 


THE  OLD  SECOND  PARISH  CLOCK,  PORTLAND. 

DESTROYED    BY   FIRE,  JULY   4,   18()6. 


Relic  of  days  gone  by, 

Thou  landmark  ancient! 
How  many  an  anxious  eye 
Looks  for  thy  turret  high, 
Dinner  expectant. 

Wearied  with  books  and  care, 

And  work  appetizing, 
Men  gaze  through  empty  air 
On  thy  old  face  to  stare, 

Thy  fate  unrealizing. 

Waiting  with  table  spread, 

And  viands  steaming, 
The  "gude-wife"  opes  the  door 
To  watch  thy  hands  once  more, 

Of  old  times  dreaming. 

With  bunking  notes  unpaid, 

See  mortals  hurrying, 
And  turn  to  scan  thy  face, 
To  learn  how  much  of  grace, 

And  time  for  borrowing. 

See  in  the  daily  walks 

Glances  up-turning, 
Seeking  in  vacant  space, 
For  thy  familiar  face — 

Thy  loss  discerning ! 


There's  many  a  veteran,  now, 

Past  days  recalling, 
Of  tardy  school-boy  times, 
When  came  thy  warning  chimes, 

With  sound  appalling. 

Many  a  watcher,  oft, 

Night  vigils  keeping, 
Has  blest  thy  cheering  tones, 
Telling  the  morning  comes, 

While  all  were  sleeping. 

And  many  an  eye  long  closed 

On  all  earth's  seeming, 
Has  watched  while  here  below, 
Through  tears  of  joy  or  woe, 
Thy  face,  truth  beaming. 

Faithful  on  watch-tower  high, 

To  true  time  beating, 
No  hour  went  idly  by 
Without  thy  warning  cry, 

Of  moments  fleeting. 

Borne  on  the  midnight  ail- 
Came  thy  last  pealing, 
Thy  work  for  time  was  done, 
Sadly  the  morning  sun, — 
Thy  wreck  revealing. 


IK)  THE  POETS  OF  MAL\h\ 

THE  CITY  BY  MY  WALL. 

I  know  of  a  densely  thronged  city, 

Where  echoes  no  noisy  footfall, 
Where  in  station  all  classes  are  equal, 

Just  over  my  garden  wall. 

In  the  crowd,  closely  huddled  together, 
Are  the  rich  and  the  poor — great  and  small; 

Yet  no  one  there  jostles  his  neighbor, 
In  this  city  just  over  my  wall. 

Here  are  those  who  bled  for  our  banner, 
Where  the  deep  mocked  the  warrior's  call; 

Undisturbed  now  by  tempest  or  battle, 
As  they  dwell  with  the  brave  by  my  wall. 

There  are  those  who  as  foes  met  in  battle,* 
'Midst  the  whirr  of  the  death-dealing  ball, 

Not  as  victor  and  vanquished  they  meet  here, 
In  this  city  just  over  my  wall. 

They  meet  as  meet  those  of  one  household, 

Where  weary  feet  come  at  night-fall ; 
Old  ocean  their  lullaby  chanting, 

As  they  sleep  side  by  side,  'iieath  my  wall. 

Here  are  hearts  which  once  glowed  with  devotion, 
From  whose  eloquent  lips  there  would  fall 

Thrilling  words  of  man's  sin  and  redemption, 
Silent  teachers!  are  these  by  my  wall. 

And  often,  when  earth- worn  and  weary, 

I  turn  from  care's  clamorous  call. 
To  refresh  me  with  silent  communings 

With  the  quiet  crowd,  just  by  my  wall. 

How  vain  here  seem  earthly  distinctions, 

How  vain  seems  ambition's  loud  call; 
Little  heed  these  the  world's  fierce  contentions, 

All  is  peace  with  this  throng  by  my  wall. 

How  vain,  too,  seem  earth's  eager  grasping, 

Its  hatred,  or  envy,  when  all 
An  equal  spot  soon  shall  inherit 

In  this  city,  just  over  my  wall. 

*Captains  Blytlie  and  Burrows,  and  Lieut.  Waters,  of  the  Enterprise  and  Boxer,  are 
luiried  in  the  Kastern  Cemetery,  adjoining  the  garden  of  the  author. 


LUBLLA  J.B.CA8E.  117 

In  tliis  city,  where  softly  the  shadows 

On  each  weary  head  silent  fall, 
All  to  one  mother's  bosom  are  folded, 

In  this  home  of  the  dead  by  my  wall. 


Mrs.  Case,  the  eldest  (laughter  of  Levi  Bartlett,  M.  I).,  and  granddaughter  of  Hon. 
Josiah  Bartlett,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  our  National  Independence,  was 
born  in  Kingston,  N.  H.,  Dec.  30, 1807,  and  died  Oct.  30, 1857.  Mrs.  Case  resided  for  quite 
a  period  in  Portland,  and  her  husband  during  that  time  was  editor  of  the  Eastern  ArgU». 
She  frequently  contributed  to  The  Rose  of  Sharon.  The  Ladle*'  Repository,  The  Uni- 
versalwt  Review,  and  many  other  periodicals,  and  was,  in  prose  and  poetry,  alike  felici 
tous;  her  diction  always  finding  access  to  the  heart,  impressing  others  with  the  purity 
and  exaltation  of  her  spirit.  Mrs.  Case's  only  sister,  a  lady  of  great  personal  attraction 
and  amiability  of  character,  was  the  wife  of  Hon.  F.  ().  J.  Smith,  of  Portland. 


MO  HAL  MIGHT. 

Thy  voice  ring's  out  where  regal  halls 

Thrill  to  the  clash  of  mind, 
Where  young  reform,  and  gray-beard  wrong 

Unequal  contests  find. 

Unswerving  tliou  wilt  ever  stand 

The  champion  of  the  right, 
And  listening  senates  yet  shall  feel 

Thy  dauntless  moral  might. 

Thou  wilt  be  blest;  but  not  as  now 

Thou  dost  so  fondly  trust, 
But  with  the  joy  that  ever  waits 

The  high-souled  and  the  just. 

For  thy  pure  life  must  ever  prove 

A  blessing  to  mankind. 
And  nations  might  be  proud  to  wear 

The  impress  of  thy  mind. 


DREAMS. 

There  is  a  bright  ideal  world 

Held  by  thy  vision  now, 
I  read  it  in  thine  earnest  eye, 

I  see  it  011  thy  brow. 
I  would,  I  would  it  might  not  pass 

From  out  thy  manhood  years, 
But  thou  hast  Genius'  soaring  hopes, 

And  thou  must  know  its  fears. 


118  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Too  beautiful  for  earth — those  dreams ! 

They  will  not,  cannot  stay, 
And  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 

Must  bear  their  light  away. 
Yet  courage  still !  for  higher  things 

Are  latent  in  thy  soul, 
And  manhood  yet  shall  see  their  power 

In  sweeping  grandeur  roll. 


'liznbeth  Smith 


Mrs.  E.  S.  I>yer  was  born  in  Needham,  Massachusetts,  April  13,  1808,  and  obtained  her 
education  at  the  district  school,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  academical  terms  in  the  ad 
jacent  town  of  Dedham.  She  has  resided  nearly  thirty  years  in  the  village  of  Oldtown, 
Maine,  has  been  twice  married,  and  is  now  a  widow.  Mrs.  Dyer  has  written  much,  and 
some  of  her  poems  have  appeared  in  various  "  Gift-Books"  and  holiday  publications. 
She  has  used  various  signatures,  chiefly  that  of  "  Lizette." 


THE  LIGHT  OF  LIBERTY. 

From  Plymouth  Rock,  on  which  our  sires 
Zealous  for  God,  and  strong  for  right, 

Kindled  the  flame  of  Freedom' s  fires, 
Streams  forth  a  still  increasing  light; 

And  Liberty,  baptized  in  blood, 

Waves  high  her  torch  o'er  land  and  flood ! 

It  lights  the  Atlantic's  citied  shores, 
Glows  on  Pacific's  glittering  strand; 

It  gilds  the  sails  that  waft  our  stores 
To  every  sun-lit,  wave-washed  land. 

Proud  nations  own  its  checkless  sway, 

And  exiles  bless  its  beacon  ray. 

Where  council  fires  burned  fierce  of  yore, 
Its  clear,  unwavering  radiance  falls ; 

Nor  fails  it  equal  warmth  to  pour 
On  temple  domes  and  cottage  walls. 

Where'er  it  shines,  there  brood  in  love, 

The  flame-eyed  eagle  and  the  dove. 

It  gleams  athwart  Time's  future  age, — 

It  glorifies  our  heroes'  scars, 
And  writes  our  youthful  history's  page, 

With  rays  as  quenchless  as  the  stars; 
Flakes  the  white  wings  of  Peace — her  breast 
Unruffled  by  the  world's  unrest. 


DANIEL  DOLE.— SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH.  119 


Science,  Philosophy  and  Art, 

March  cowlless  in  its  heaven-fed  rays ; 
From  sacred  fanes  grim  shades  depart, 

Chased  by  its  truth-diffusing  blaze. 
And,  Father,  where  we  kneel  to  Thee, 
Burns  the  pure  light  of  Liberty, 


\miitl  Hole. 


Born  in  Bloomfleld,  now  Skowhegau,  September,  1808.  Graduated  at  the  Baugor  Theo 
logical  Seminary  in  1839,  received  ordination  in  the  following  year,  and,  under  appoint 
ment  from  the  American  Board  of  Commissioners  for  Foreign  Missions,  embarked  for 
the  Sandwich  Islands,  arriving  in  the  spring  of  1841.  He  was  made  principal  of  the  Pun- 
ahou  School,  and  when  it  was  incorporated  as  Oahu  College  was  appointed  its  president, 
and  held  the  position  until  1855.  He  then  removed  to  Koloa,  in  the  island  of  Kauai,  yet 
continuing  his  work  as  a  teacher,  in  which  he  was  highly  successful.  His  fondness  for 
classical  study  led  him  to  prepare  students  for  the  colleges  of  his  native  land.  He  revis 
ited  Maine  a  few  years  since,  and  was  warmly  greeted  at  the  Commencement  of  Bowdoin 
College.  Mr.  Dole  died  in  August,  1878. 

A  PEACE  HYMN. 
Speed  on,  O  Prince  of  Peace, 

The  long-expected  day, 
When  fierce-embattled  strife  shall  cease, 

And  the  wild  war-horn's  bray. 

Adorned  in  radiant  hues, 

That  glorious  day  shall  rise; 
A  lovelier  bloom  the  earth  suffuse, 

A  purer  light,  the  skies.  - 

No  more  shall  madly  rush 

The  warrior  to  the  plain, 
No  more  shall  tears  unbidden  gush, 

For  the  untimely  slain. 

Then  shall  as  sweet  a  song 

As  hailed  Messiah's  birth, 
In  living  music  float  along 

O'er  all  the  bliss-clad  earth. 


mnntl      ramiz     >mith. 


®' 

Samuel  F.  Smith,  D.  D.,  a  graduate  of  Waterville  College,  noAv  Colby  University,  was 
born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  Oct.  21, 1808.  From  1834  to  1842  he  was  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist 
Church  at  Waterville,  this  State,  and  during  the  same  period  professor  of  modern  lan 
guages  in  Waterville  College.  He  was  for  several  years  editor  of  The  Christian  Review, 
Boston,  and  of  the  publications  of  the  American  Baptist  Missionary  Union.  He  has 
spent  several  years  abroad,  and  now  resides  at  Newton  Centre,  Mass.'  He  is  the  author 
of  the  national  hymn, "  My  Country,  'T  is  of  Thee"  (written  in  1832)  and  the  missionary 
hymn,  "The  Morning  Light  is  Breaking,"  (in  same  year)  and  has  made  many  transla 
tions.  He  has  also  compiled  several  hymn-books,  and  has  written  valuable  biographies, 
besides  contributing  to  many  periodicals.  We  take  pleasure  in  announcing  that  the  poem, 
"  To  a  Bereaved  Mother,"  has  been  specially  written  for  "  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE." 


120 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


MY  CGI* N THY,  'TIS  OF  THEE. 


My  country !  'tis  of  thee, 

Sweet  land  of  liberty, 
Of  thee  I  sing: 

Land  where  my  fathers  died! 

Land  of  the  Pilgrims'  pride! 

From  every  mountain  side- 
Let  freedom  ring! 

My  native  country,  thee — 
Land  of  the  noble  free — 

Thy  name — t  love: 
[  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 


Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break. 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God!  to  thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  thee  we  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King! 


THE  MOHNING   LIGHT  IS  BREAKING. 


The  morning  light  is  breaking; 

The  darkness  disappears: 
The  sons  of  earth  are  waking 

To  penitential  tears; 
Each  breeze  that  sweeps  the  ocean 

Brings  tidings  from  afar, 
Of  nations  in  commotion, 

Prepared  for  Xion's  war. 

See  heathen  nations  bending 

Before  the  God  we  love, 
And  thousand  hearts  ascending 

In  gratitude  above; 


While  sinners,  now  confessing, 

The  gospel  call  obey, 
And  seek  a  Saviour's  blessing. 

A  nation  in  a  day. 

Blest  river  of  salvation! 

Pursue  thine  onward  way; 
Flow  thou  to  every  nation, 

Nor  in  thy  richness  stay: 
Stay  not  till  all  the  lowly 

Triumphant  reach  their  home ; 
Stay  not  trill  all  the  holy 

Proclaim — "  The  Lord  is  come !' 


SHINE  ON. 

Shine  on,  "Lone  Star!''*     Thy  radiance  bright 
Shall  spread  o'er  all  the  eastern  sky; 

Morn  breaks  apace  from  gloom  and  night: 
Shine  on,  and  bless  the  pilgrim's  eye. 


*The  Mission  to  the  Telugus  in  India.  Its  unfruitfulness  for  many  years  le.i  to  the 
proposal  to  abandon  it;  hut  soon  after  this  poem  was  written,  it  hecame  the  most  success 
ful  mission  of  modern  times. 


SAMUEL  FEANCIS  SMITH.  121 

Shine  on,  "Lone  Star!"    I  would  not  dim 

The  light  that  gleams  with  dubious  ray; 
The  lonely  star  of  Bethlehem 

Led  on  a  bright  and  glorious  day. 

Shine  on,  "Lone  Star!"  in  grief  and  tears, 

And  sad  reverses  oft  baptized; 
Shine  on  amid  thy  sister  spheres ; 

Lone  stars  in  heaven  are  not  despised. 

Shine  on,  "Lone  Star!"     Who  lifts  his  hand 

To  dash  to  earth  so  bright  a  gem, 
A  new  "lost  pleiad"  from  the  band 

That  sparkles  in  night's  diadem? 

Shine  on,  "Lone  Star!"     The  day  draws  near 
When  none  shall  shine  more  fair  than  thou : 

Thou,  born  and  nursed  in  doubt  and  fear, 
Wilt  glitter  on  Immanuel's  brow. 

Shine  on,  "Lone  Star!"  till  earth  redeemed 

In  dust  shall  bid  its  idols  fall; 
And  thousands,  where  thy  radiance  beamed, 

Shall  "crown  the  Saviour  Lord  of  all." 


TO  A  BEREAVED  MOTHER. 

O  mourn  not,  fond  mother,  the  joys  that  depart, 
There  is  comfort  and  peace  for  the  stricken  in  heart; 
God  has  taken  the  spirit  that  basked  in  thy  love, 
"The  beautiful  angels"  have  borne  it  above. 

The  plant  that  you  reared  to  brighten  earth's  gloom, 

Had  fastened  its  roots  in  the  soil  of  the  tomb ; 

It  smiled  in  your  garden,  so  gentle  and  fair, 

It  has  climbed  o'er  the  wall,  and  is  blossoming  there. 

The  jewel  you  wore  with  pride  on  your  breast, 
Now  flashes  its  light  in  the  land  of  the  blest; 
The  rose  is  still  fragrant  though  torn  from  the  stem, 
The  setting  is  ruined,  but  safe  is  the  gem. 

Then  gird  thee  to  labor,  to  trial,  to  love, 
The  treasure,  still  thine,  awaits  thee  above ; 
Be  faithful,  be  earnest,  night  soon  will  be  riven, 
And  the  lost  one  of  earth  be  thy  jewel  in  heaven. 
10 


122 


THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


Ray  Palmer  I).  D.,  author  of  the  famous  hymn,  "  My  Faith  Looks  up  to  Thee,"  was  born 
at  Little  Compton,  11. 1.,  Nov.  12, 1808,  and  died  in  New  York  City,  Mar.  29,  1887,  aged  78 
years.  From  1835  to  1850  he  was  pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Bath,  and  is, 
therefore  represented  in  this  volume.  In  1847  he  ma  le  a  tour  through  Europe,  notes  of 
which  were  published  in  The  Christian.  Mirror  of  Portland.  Mr.  Palmer,  during  his 
residence  in  Maine,  was  on  the  board  of  overseers  of  Bowdoin  College,  and  took  an  active 
interest  in  education  and  literature.  He  was  the  author  of  several  religious  books,  most 
of  which  have  been  republished  in  London  and  Edinburgh. 


MY  FAITH  LOOKS  UP  TO  THEE."* 


My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee, 
Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 

Saviour  Divine ! 
Now  hear  me  while  I  pray; 
Take  all  my  guilt  away; 
Oh,  let  me  from  this  day, 

Be  wholly  thine. 

May  thy  rich  grace  impart 
Strength  to  my  fainting  heart; 

My  zeal  inspire ; 
As  Thou  hast  died  for  me, 
Oh,  may  my  love  to  Thee 
Pure,  warm,  and  changeless  be,- 

A  living  fire. 


While  life's  dark  maze  I  tread, 
And  griefs  around  me  spread, 

Be  Thou  my  guide ; 
Bid  darkness  turn  to  day, 
Wipe  sorrow's  tears  away, 
Nor  let  me  ever  stray 

From  Thee  aside. 

When  ends  life's  transient  dream, 
When  death's  cold,  sullen  stream 

Shall  o'er  me  roll, 
Blest  Saviour,  then,  in  love, 
Fear  and  distrust  remove; 
Oh,  bear  me  safe  above, 

A  ransomed  soul ! 


"LORD,  MY  WEAK  THOUGHT  IN  VAIN  WOULD  CLIMB." 

Lord,  my  weak  thought  in  vain  would  climb, 
To  search  the  starry  vault  profound; 

In  vain  would  wing  her  flight  sublime 
To  find  Creation's  outmost  bound. 

But  weaker  still  that  thought  must  prove, 
To  search  Thy  great,  eternal  plan, — 

Thy  sovereign  counsels,  born  of  love, 
Long  ages  ere  the  world  began. 

When  my  dim  reason  would  demand 
Why  that,  or  this,  Thou  dost  ordain, 

By  some  vast  deep  I  seem  to  stand, 
Whose  secrets  I  must  ask  in  vain. 

When  doubts  disturb  my  troubled  breast, 

And  all  is  dark  as  night  to  me, 
Here,  as  011  solid  rock,  I  rest, 

That  so  it  seemeth  good  to  Thee. 

*Originally  written  December,  1830. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  LIGHT. 


Be  this  my  joy,  that  evermore 
Thou  rulest  all  things  at  Thy  will; 

Thy  sovereign  wisdom  I  adore, 
And  calmly,  sweetly,  trust  Thee  still. 


whington 


Born  in  Portland,  Jan.  21,  1809.  and  died  in  Somerville,  Mass.,  Jan.  27,  1868.  Mr.  Light 
was  publisher  of  the  American  Monthly  Magazine,  in  Boston,  from  1830  to  1832;  he  also 
edited  the  Young  American's  Magazine  and  the  Young  Mechanic,  in  the  same  city.  A 
small  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  in  Boston  in  1853. 


KEEP  AT  WORK. 

Does  a  mountain  on  you  frown? 

Keep  at  work ; 
You  may  undermine  it  yet; 

If  you  stand  and  thump  its  base, 
Sorry  bruises  you  may  get, — 

Keep  at  work. 

Will  Miss  Fortune's  face  look  sour? 

Keep  at  work ; 

She  may  smile  again,  some  day; 
If  you  pull  your  hair  and  fret, 
Rest  assured  she  '11  have  her  way, — 
Keep  at  work. 

Does  the  world  lift  up  its  heel? 

Keep  at  work ; 
Whether  it  be  wrong  or  right, 

May  be,  you  must  bide  your  time; 
If  for  victory  you  fight, 

Keep  at  work. 

If  the  devil  growl  at  you, 

Keep  at  work; 
That's  the  best  way  to  resist: 

If  you  hold  an  argument, 
You  may  feel  his  iron  fist, — 

Keep  at  work. 

Are  your  talents  vilified? 

Keep  at  work; 
Greater  men  than  you  are  hated ; 

If  you  're  right  then  go  ahead — 
Grit  will  be  appreciated, — 

Keep  at  work. 


124  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Everything  is  done  by  labor; 

Keep  at  work, 

If  you  would  improve  your  station: 
They  have  help  from  Providence, 
Who  work  out  their  own  salvation, — 
Keep  at  work. 


THE  SOMERSET. 

While  an  Irishman  was  riding 

Over  Cambridge  bridge, 
Gazing  at  the  glassy  water, 

Near  old  Cragie's*  edge, 

There  he  saw  that  luckless  village 

Underneath  the  ground, 
Seeming  tumbled  topsy-turvey, 

At  a  single  bound. 

There  was  sure  the  noble  schoolhouse, 

Looking  like  a  fool — 
Yes,  the  same  where  his  young  Patrick 

Daily  went  to  school. 

Though  'twas  queer,  he  did  not  wonder 

That  the  faithless  town 
Found  its  stubborn  meeting-houses 

Whirling  upside  down : 

But,  anear  the  glass-house  steeple 

Stood  the  HOLY  CROSS  ! 
With  the  CHURCH  he  never  doubted, 

Till  that  wondrous  toss ! 

Could  it  be  that  he  was  seeing 

With  his  honest  eyes ! 
Or  was  some  infernal  spirit 

Filling  him  with  lies? 

Up  he  sprang,  and  bid  the  driver 

Let  him  be  his  own — 
Wondering  how  a  soul  was  aisy, 

Till  the  truth  was  known ! 

*The  Third  Ward  of  Cambridge,  Mass..  makes  a  village  by  itself,  situated  on  what  was 
formerly  called  Cragie's  Point,  extending  into  Charles  River,  in  which  it  is  often  clearly 
mirrored. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  SNOW,  125 


When  he  found  himself  alighted, 

Feeling  rather  pale, 
Anxiously  he  fell  to  gazing, 

Leaning  on  a  rail : 

When,  behold !  above  the  water, 

Rose  the  self-same  town 
He  had  seen,  the  moment  previous, 

Facing  wrong-side  down ! 

"Ah!"  said  Pat,  "she  did  it  nicely! 

Let  us  take  a  wet;" 
(Pulling  from  his  side  a  bottle)— 

"  What  a  somerset!" 


<ishin$ton  jjnaw. 


G.  W.  Snow  was  born  in  Bangor,  May  13,  1809,  and  lived  in  that  city  until  21  years  of 
age,  at  that  time  going  to  North  Carolina,  where  for  three  years,  in  the  vicinity  of  Eliza 
beth  City,  he  successfully  taught  school.  He  then  returned  to  Bangor,  and  was  employ 
ed  for  about  one  year  in  the  office  of  the  Register  of  Deeds  for  Penobscot  County.  Sub 
sequently  he  was  Clerk  of  the  Common  Council  in  Bangor  for  four  years,  and  was  then 
elected  to  the  office  of  City  Clerk,  serving  therein  till  1871  (twenty-seven  years).  He  was 
then  chosen  one  of  the  board  of  city  assessors,  serving  three  years,  and  then  became 
Clerk  and  Collector  of  the  Bangor  Water  Board,  which  office  he'  has  filled  ten  years  and 
still  holds.  Mr.  Snow  has  written  many  pieces  for  celebrations,  anniversaries  and  the 
like  occasions,  and  is  the  author  of  a  felicitous  Masonic  work  entitled  "  The  Martyr 
dom  of  Jacques  de  Molay." 

AMBITION  AND  REVENGE. 
How  lacking  wisdom  is  Ambition's  slave  ! 
Though  Fame's  loud  voice  may  rank  him  with  the  brave. 
Aye—  and  how  madly  blind  he  rushes  on 
O'er  bleeding  hearts,  until  the  prize  be  won. 
For,  when  his  hand  is  stretched  that  prize  to  clasp, 
It  proves  a  phantom  to  his  eager  grasp. 

But  he,  within  whose  heart  of  deadly  ire, 
Revenge  has  kindled  his  Gehenna  fire, 
By  far  out-runs  Ambition's  swiftest  fool 
In  folly's  race,  and  wins  a  fatal  goal. 
When  his  intent  —  no  longer  iciah,  but  deed- 
Is  past  recall,  he  sees  the  fiend  that  led 
Him  to  that  goal—  beholds  the  precipice, 
Beneath  whose  crags  Remorse's  black  abyss 
Awaits  his  fall,  while  pauseless  on  his  path 
Stalks  a  dread  Nemesis,  whose  quenchless  wrath 
Sleeps  not,  but  ever,  like  a  fiend  of  hate, 
Silent  and  swift  pursues  him  to  his  fate  ! 


126  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Deluded  fool!  a  demon's  dupe  thou  art! 
Who  gives  thee  now  a  scorpion  in  the  heart, 
Whose  venom  poisons  all  life's  fountain  there, 
And  whose  sharp  fangs  its  quivering  fibres  tear ! 

But  one  revengeful  monarch  gave  no  thought 

To  what  the  path  he  blindly  trod  might  lead, 
But  heedless,  hurried  to  the  ends  he  sought. 

Kevenge,  Ambition,  and  insatiate  Greed, 
The  wolfish  trio,  regnant  in  his  soul, 

Urged  him  with  all  their  fierce,  satanic  power, 
With  reckless  haste,  on  to  the  fatal  goal, 

Impatient  for  the  long-desired  hour, 
When  Greed  with  eager  hands  the  spoil  may  seize — 

Revenge  gloat  madly  o'er  his  victim's  pain, 
And  proud  Ambition  crown  himself  with  bays, 

Where  coils  the  viper  that  shall  pierce  his  brain. 


THE  TEMPEST  DRIVEN. 

Adown  the  gulf,  adown  the  gulf, 

The  trembling  vessel  flies! 
No  shore  or  welcome  haven  near, 

To  glad  the  seaman's  eyes. 

Adown  the  gulf,  adown  the  gulf, 

She  speeds  her  fearful  way; 
The  storm  is  dark  around  her  track — 

No  star  doth  lend  its  ray. 

The  billows  dash  with  threatening  roar, 
As  hounds  that  scent  their  prey, 

Yet  swiftly,  wildly  speeds  she  o'er 
The  flashing  waves  away! 

But  now  no  more  adown  the  gulf 
The  lonely  bark  is  driven, — 

Before  the  veering  storm  she  reels — 
Her  only  sail  is  riven. 

Across  the  gulf,  across  the  gulf! 

Amid  the  deepening  storm, 
From  wave  to  wave  she  scuds  away, 

Like  some  sea-monster's  form. 


BENJAMIN  BUS  SET  THATCHER.  127 

Away !  she  may  not  linger  there, 

For  on  her  gleaming  path, 
Like  wolves  that  chase  the  flying  deer, 

The  billows  foam  in  wrath. 

But  now  away  beyond  the  gulf, 

She  finds  a  calmer  sea, 
And  clear  and  bright  comes  forth  the  sun, 

From  tempest-clouds  set  free. 

'T  is  thus  the  spirit,  by  the  strife 

Of  Death  relentless  driven, 
Finds,  far  beyond  the  storms  of  life, 

A  calm  repose  in  heaven. 


mjxmin      nzwtt 


Third  son  of  Hon.  Samuel  Thatcher,  of  Bangor,  born  in  the  town  of  Warren,  Oct.  8,  180&. 
Entered  Bowdoin  College,  one  year  in  advance,  at  the  age  of  thirteen  years,  and  gradu 
ated  with  distinction  in  182G.  He  adopted  the  law  for  his  profession,  had  an  office  in 
Boston,  and  did  enough  in  that  line  to  give  promise  of  success;  hut  literature  was  more 
to  his  taste,  and  he  soon  became  a  contributor  to  the  leading  magazines  and  journals 
then  published.  He  afterward  edited  several  works,  the  Colonizatio-nist,  a  volume  of 
Mrs.  Hemans's  poetry,  for  which  he  wrote  an  eloquent  preface,  etc.,  and  was  author  of 
"Indian  Biography,"  and  "Indian  Traits."  An  article  in  The  Quarterly  Jieview,  on 
Atlantic  Steam  Navigation,  was  contributed  by  him  while  on  a  visit  to  England.  He  also 
wrote  a  life  of  Phillis  Wheatley,  and  one  of  J.  Osgood  Wright,  a  missionary.  He  died  in 
Boston,  July  14,  1840. 


THE  BIRD  OF  THE  BASTILE. 

Come  to  my  breast,  thou  lone 

And  weary  bird  !* — one  tone 
Of  the  rare  music  of  my  childhood ! — dear 

Is  that  strange  sound  to  me ; 

Dear  is  the  memory 
It  brings  my  soul  of  many  a  parted  year. 

Again,  yet  once  again, 

O  minstrel  of  the  main! 
Lo !  festal  face  and  form  familiar  throng 

Unto  my  waking  eye ; 

And  voices  of  the  sky 
Sing  from  the  walls  of  death  unwonted  song. 

Nay,  cease  not — I  would  call 
Thus,  from  the  silent  hall 
Of  the  unlighted  grave,  the  joys  of  old; 


*A  dove  which  a  prisoner,  confined  from  his  youth,  had  tamed,  and  whose  companion 
ship  he  alone  enjoyed. 


128  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Beam  on  me  yet  once  more, 
Ye  blessed  eyes  of  yore; 
Starting  life-blood  through  all  my  being  cold. 

Ah!  cease  not — phantoms  fair, 

Fill  thick  the  dungeon's  air; 
They  wave  me  from  its  gloom — I  fly — I  stand 

Again  upon  that  spot, 

Which  ne'er  hath  been  forgot 
In  all  time's  tears,  my  own  green,  glorious  land ! 

There,  on  each  noon-bright  hill, 

By  fount  and  flashing  rill, 
Slowly  the  faint  flocks  sought  the  breezy  shade ; 

There  gleamed  the  sunset's  fire, 

On  the  tall,  taper  spire, 
And  windows  low,  along  the  upland  glade. 

Sing,  sing ! — I  do  not  dream ; 

It  is  my  own  blue  stream, 
Far,  far  below,  amid  the  balmy  vale ; — 

I  know  it  by  the  hedge 

Of  rose-trees  at  its  edge, 
Vaunting  their  crimson  beauty  to  the  gale : 

There,  there,  'mid  clustering  leaves, 

Glimmer  my  father's  eaves, 
And  the  worn  threshold  of  my  youth  beneath; — 

I  know  them  by  the  moss, 

And  the  old  elms  that  toss 
Their  lithe  arms  up  where  winds  the  smoke's  gray  wreath. 

Sing,  sing ! — I  am  not  mad — 

Sing !  that  the  visions  glad 
May  smile  that  smiled,  and  speak  that  spake  but  now; — 

Sing,  sing ! — I  might  have  knelt 

And  prayed;  I  might  have  felt 
Their  breath  upon  my  bosom  and  my  brow. 

I  might  have  pressed  to  this 

Cold  bosom,  in  my  bliss, 
Each  long-lost  form  that  ancient  hearth  beside ; 

O  heaven!  I  might  have  heard, 

From  living  lips  one  word, 
Thou  mother  of  my  childhood, — and  have  died. 


BENJAMIN  BUS  SET  THATCHER.  129 


JSTay,  nay,  'tis  sweet  to  weep, 

Ere  yet  in  death  I  sleep ; 
It  minds  me  I  have  been,  and  am  again, — 

And  the  world  wakes  around ; 

It  breaks  the  madness  bound, 
While  I  have  dreamed,  those  ages,  on  my  brain. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  love 

Even  this  gentle  dove, 
This  breathing  thing  from  all  life  else  apart; — 

Ah !  leave  me  not  the  gloom 

Of  my  eternal  tomb 
To  bear  alone — alone ! — come  to  my  heart, 

My  bird! — Thou  shalt  go  free; 

And  come,  O  come  to  me 
Again,  when  from  the  hills  the  spring  gale  blows ; 

So  shall  I  learn,  at  least, 

One  other  year  hath  ceased, 
And  the  long  woe  throbs,  lingering,  to  its  close. 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

Oh,  lightly,  lightly  tread 
Upon  these  early  ashes,  ye  that  weep 
For  her  that  slumbers  in  the  dreamless  sleep 

Of  this  eternal  bed ! 

Hallow  her  humble  tomb 

With  your  kind  sorrow,  ye  that  knew  her  well, 
And  climbed  with  her  youth's  brief  but  brilliant  dell, 

'Mid  sunlight  and  fair  bloom. 

Glad  voices  whispered  round 
As  from  the  stars, — bewildering  harmonies, 
And  visions  of  sweet  beauty  filled  the  skies, 

And  the  wide  vernal  ground 

With  hopes  like  blossoms  shone : 
Oh,  vainly  these  shall  glow,  and  vainly  wreathe 
Verdure  for  the  veiled  bosom,  that  may  breathe 

No  joy — no  answering  tone. 

Yet  weep  not  for  the  dead 
That  in  the  glory  of  green  youth  do  fall, 
Ere  frenzied  passion  or  foul  sin  one  thrall 

Upon  their  souls  hath  spread. 


130  THE  POETS  OF  MA  JNE. 

Weep  not!  They  are  at  rest 
From  misery,  and  madness,  and  all  strife, 
That  makes  but  night  of  day,  and  death  of  life, 

In  the  grave's  peaceful  breast. 

Nor  ever  more  shall  come 

To  them  the  breath  of  envy,  nor  the  rankling  eye 
Shall  follow  them,  where  side  by  side  they  lie — 

Defenceless,  noiseless,  dumb. 

Aye — though  their  memory's  green, 
In  the  fond  heart,  where  love  for  them  was  born, 
With  sorrow's  silent  dews,  each  eve,  each  morn, 

Be  freshly  kept,  unseen — 

Yet  weep  not !  They  shall  soar 
As  the  freed  eagle  of  the  skies,  that  pined, 
But  pines  no  more,  for  his  own  mountain  wind, 

And  the  old  ocean  shore. 

Rejoice !  rejoice !    How  long 
Should  the  faint  spirit  wrestle  with  its  clay, 
Fluttering  in  vain  for  the  far  cloudless  day, 

And  for  the  angels'  song? 

It  mounts !  it  mounts !     Oh,  spread 
The  banner  of  gay  victory — and  sing 
For  the  enfranchised — and  bright  garlands  bring- 
But  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 


The  Right  Rev.  George  Burgess,  D.  D.,  first  Bishop  of  Maine,  was  born  in  Providence, 
R.  I.,  Oct.  31, 1809  the  son  of  the  Hon.  Thomas  Burgess,  who  was  a  judge  of  the  Court  of 
Common  Pleas  01  Rhode  Island,  and  an  eminent  jurist.  He  entered  Brown  University 
when  scarcely  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  graduated  in  1826,  the  youngest  member  of  his 
class.  He  studied  law  in  his  father's  office  for  three  years,  two  years  of  which  time  he 
was  tutor  in  the  University.  But,  becoming  dissatisfied  with  the  legal  profession,  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  his  tastes  and  religious  views  inclining  him  to  the  ministry,  he  sailed  for 
Europe,  and  during  the  next  three  years  he  studied  theology  at  Gottingen,  Bonn,  and 
Berlin.  He  returned  to  New  England  in  the  spring  of  1833,  and  was  ordained  deacon  by 
Bishop  Griswold.  in  June,  1833,  and  to  the  priesthood  by  Bishop  Brownell  in  1834.  He  be 
came  rector  of  Christ  Church  (Episcopal)  at  Hartford,  Ct.,  the  same  year,  and  continued 
in  that  office  until  October,  1847,  when  on  the  31st  day  of  that  month  he  was  consecrated 
Bishop  of  Maine,  becoming  also  rector  of  Christ  Church  at  Gardiner.  Toward  the  close 
of  his  life  he  went  to  Hayti  for  his  health,  and  established  there  an  Episcopal  mission. 
He  died  of  paralysis  at  sea,  while  on  his  way  to  Port-au-Prince,  April  23,  1866,  and  his 
remains  were  brought  to  Gardiner  and  buried  in  the  cemetery  there.  His  writings  in 
clude  a  metrical  version  of  a  portion  of  the  Psalms  (1840),  "  The  Last  Enemy  Conquered 
and  Conquering"  (1851),  and  "  Sermons  on  the  Christian  Life"  (1854).  Since  his  death  a 
volume  of  poems  from  his  pen  has  been  published. 


GEORGE  BURGESS.  131 


THE  HOURS. 

1    A.   M. 

ONE  !    Lord,  whose  daily  mercies  number 
My  waking  hours  and  hours  of  slumber, 
Launched  on  life's  everlasting  sea, 
I  ask  the  gales  that  waft  to  Thee ! 

Two!    'Tis  the  watcher's  loneliest  hour; 
The  realm  of  night  has  darkest  power; 
O  Father,  let  Thine  angels  keep 
Kind  watches  o'er  a  world  asleep! 

THREE  !    Ere  the  dawn's  first  infant  breath 
Floats  o'er  the  vales  a  chill  of  death; 
Oh,  drive  these  murky  shades  afar, 
And  come,  thou  bright  and  morning  Star ! 

FOUR  !     And  the  early  laborer  wakes ; 
Gray  o'er  the  hills  the  day-dawn  breaks : 
Oh,  warm  my  heart,  celestial  ray, 
And  shine,  and  mount,  till  all  be  day! 

FIVP:  !    And  beside  their  peaceful  beds 
Bow  golden  locks  and  hoary  heads ; 
And  blessings  load  the  balmy  air, 
And  strew  the  way  of  praise  and  prayer. 

Six!    Night  is  past  and  day  is  here; 
Its  voices  murmur  to  my  ear— 
"Twelve  hxmrs  the  great  Taskmaster  gave; 
Work,  and  BE  MINDFUL  OF  THY  GRAVE!" 

SEVEN!    Give  this  day  our  daily  bread! 
'Tis  Thou  the  countless  boards  hast  spread 
Where  households  meet,  and  kneel,  and  part, 
For  hall  and  chamber,  field  and  mart. 

EIGHT  !    And  the  hours  are  swift  of  flight, 
Where  love,  and  home,  and  young  delight, 
And  hope,  and  cheerful  labor,  leave 
No  spectres  for  the  distant  eve. 

NINE  !    Blessings,  blessings  on  the  sound 
Of  humble  school-bells,  clashing  round ; 
The  merry  sowers  forth  they  ring, 
And  gray-haired  men  the  sheaves  shall  bring. 


132  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

TEN!    Here  we  till  no  Eden's  soil; 
All  worthy  gain  is  wrung  by  toil; 
The  world's  vast  toil,  O  Father,  guide, 
Thy  kingdom  first,  then  all  beside ! 

ELEVEN!    And  morn  has  sped  so  soon; 
Haste,  or  the  journey  stays  till  noon: 
Woe,  if  the  joyous  noon-day  sun 
Look  down,  and  naught  be  yet  begun! 

TWELVE  !    Heaven  puts  on  its  dazzling  robe, 
And  festal  pomp  girds  round  the  globe ; 
For  God  is  love,  and  life,  and  light, 
And  joy,  and  majesty,  and  right. 

1  P.  M. 

ONE  !  One  step  downward !  Oh,  be  mine 
The  fruitful  morning's  rich  decline, 
And  faith's  calm  vision  clear  and  clearer, 
As  hope's  bright  shore  grows  near  and  nearer! 

Two !    Victory  hovering  in  the  West, 
The  soldier  craves  not  soon  to  rest; 
With  wiser  heart  and  cooler  nerve, 
Content  to  suffer  and  to  serve. 

THKEE  !    Shadowing  clouds  course  o'er  the  plain, 
And  gentle  breezes  curl  the  main ; 
And  sober  toil  is  half  repose, 
While  day  sinks  lovelier  than  it  rose. 

FOUR!    If  along  life's  dusty  street 
A  moment  pause  my  way-worn  feet, 
May  some  kind  angel  stoop  and  smile, 
And  whisper  sweet,  "A  little  while!" 

FIVE!    The  long  shadows  of  the  hills, 
A  pensive,  pleasing  music  fills, 
Where  Nature,  with  all  sounds  of  peace, 
Gives  the  kind  signal  of  release. 

Six !    And  the  twelve  hours'  toil  is  past ! 
O  Father,  bring  us  home  at  last ! 
Home,  as  at  eve  we  love  to  meet; 
No  clouded  eye,  no  vacant  seat! 

SEVEN  !    And  as  star  by  star  appears, 
All  heaven  the  desert  wanderer  cheers, 
Maps  the  dark  pathway  o'er  the  billow, 
And  smiles  on  childhood's  weary  pillow. 


GEOEGE  BURGESS.  133 


EIGHT!    Now  the  moon,  with  silver  shield, 
Pale  splendor  pours  o'er  wave  and  field; 
Oh  thus,  when  brighter  joys  depart, 
Let  soothing  peace  still  fold  my  heart! 

NINE  !    And  our  curfew !    Bending  low, 
"  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow;" 
And  Thou,  whose  love  the  long  day  gave, 
Still  pardon,  succor,  guide,  and  save ! 

TEN!     Who  would  loiter  in  the  dance, 
Where  pleasure  hangs  on  folly's  glance, 
While  night  sits  throned  in  starry  blaze, 
And  tells  us  more  than  all  our  days? 

ELEVEN  !    The  sentry  walks  the  camp ; 
The  student  lingers  o'er  the  lamp; 
The  world  may  sleep,  but  I  would  wake, 
And  watch,  and  toil,  for  love's  sweet  sake. 

TWELVE  !    Echoing  through  the  midnight  halls, 
The  knell  of  time  to  judgment  calls; 
O  Saviour,  write  my  daily  story, 
Till  I  shall  sleep  and  wake  in  glory ! 

[Servant  of  God!  thine  "hour"  has  come, 
The  knell  of  time  has  called  thee  home ; 
While  angels  chant  the  written  story, 
Thy  sleep  is  but  the  way  to  glory.     A.  D.  E.] 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  DREAM. 

Tired  with  the  sultry  noonday  toil, 
I  laid  me  on  the  grassy  soil, 

Where  stately  o'er  my  head, 
An  oak's  broad  branches,  with  the  sound 
Of  winds  on  distant  errand  bound, 

Their  fanning  coolness  spread, 
And,  glistening  through  them,  far  on  high, 
The  summer  sun  went  down  the  sky. 
The  strange,  low  notes  that  nature  blends, 
Like  soothing  words  of  ancient  friends, 

Came  gently  on  my  soul : 
A  child  once  more,  I  heard  the  bee 


134  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  bird,  the  wind,  the  whispering  tree, 
And  that  unearthly  harmony 

O'er  all  my  senses  stole; 
Till,  stretched  along  the  hillock's  side, 
I  dreamed,  and  in  my  dream  I  died. 

With  one  short  moment's  bursting  strife, 

My  spirit  upward  sprung; 
But  on  the  verge  of  either  life 

Yet  one  short  moment  hung; 
Above  the  dead  I  seemed  to  bow, 
I  seemed  to  touch  the  clay-cold  brow, 

And  close  the  fading  eye, 
And  still  the  murmuring  branches  stirred, 
And,  soaring  still,  the  forest  bird 

Sent  out  its  joyous  cry. 

But  these  were  like  the  scenes  of  night, 
While  I  awoke,  and  bathed  in  light 
That  round  me  far  unveiled  to  sight 

A  world  all  dim  before : 
And  life,  as  if  an  inward  fount, 

O'erflowed  me  and  upbore, 
As  on  light  plumes  of  love  to  mount, 

And  journey  and  adore. 
I  was  as  one  who,  on  the  main, 
Has  caught  and  lost  a  landward  strain, 
That  came,  and  broke,  and  came  again, 

'Mid  the  hoarse  billows'  roar, 
But  near  as  now  his  vessel  floats, 

Sound  matched  with  sound,  the  choral  notes 

Pour  warbling  from  the  shore : 
So  all  which  e'er  to  joy  or  prayer 

Had  moved  my  grateful  heart, 
Seemed  in  one  glorious  hymn  to  bear 

Its  own  melodious  part. 
The  solemn  voice  of  woods  and  streams ; 
The  song  of  evening's  fading  beams; 

The  ocean's  swell  and  fall; 
And  this  fair  chain  of  living  things, 
From  glittering  clouds  of  insect  wings, 
To  nations  rallying  round  their  kings ; 
As  from  ten  thousand  thousand  strings, 

One  music  spread  from  all: 
A  strain  of  glory,  heard  above; 
And  heard  on  earth,  a  strain  of  love. 


GEORGE  BURGESS.  .  135 


But  oh,  with  what  a  bounding  thrill 
I  feel  the  airs  that  never  chill, 

The  strength  that  knows  not  years ! 
No  cloud  in  all  the  heaven's  sweet  blue; 
No  more  of  doubt,  where  all  was  true; 
No  death  to  close  the  longing  view; 

No  dream  of  future  tears! 
The  way  was  passed ;  and  I  could  stand, 
As  if  on  Jordan's  farther  strand; 
As  if,  the  palm-branch  in  my  hand, 

The  chaplet  on  my  brow, 
A  wanderer  resting  at  his  home, 

A  pilgrim  at  the  holy  dome, 

To  Zion's  mountain  I  were  come — 

Eternity  was  now ! 
O  joy,  beneath  the  gathered  sail, 
To  hear  from  far  the  howling  gale, 

And  feel  the  haven  won! 

0  joy,  along  the  well-fought  field, 

To  see  the  conqueror's  spear  and  shield 

Give  back  the  setting  sun ! 
All,  all  was  mine,  and  battle's  din, 
And  the  wild  sea  of  grief  and  sin, 
No  more  with  morn  should  yet  begin; 

For  all  their  work  was  done. 

1  took  no  note  of  earthly  hours ; 

Alike  of  months  or  moments  sped : 
I  stretched  the  wing  of  inward  powers, 

And  far  or  near  might  tread  : 
And  now  it  seemed  as  I  had  bowed, 
Where  rides  in  heaven  some  Sabbath  cloud, 
And  still  a  lingering  gaze  had  cast 
On  those  green  vales  whose  woes  were  past. 
Then  forth  the  fire  of  gladness  broke, 
And  all  my  new-born  memory  spoke, 
And  all  its  raptures  rushed  to  meet 

In  yon  best  psalm  of  happiest  days, 
"My  thought  on  God  shall  still  be  sweet, 

And  all  my  being  shall  be  praise." 
I  praised  the  Maker's  breath  that  gave 
A  life  that  bloomed  not  for  the  grave : 
I  praised  the  Saviour,  that  to  save 

From  more  than  mortal  loss, 
He  was  the  brother  of  the  slave, 


136  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

And  drank  the  deep  and  bitter  wave, 

And  triumphed  by  the  cross : 
I  praised  the  Spirit's  sevenfold  flame, 
That  now  from  all  my  spirit's  frame, 
With  might  that  last  in  death  o'ercame, 

Had  melted  all  its  dross. 
"And  now,  O  Lord  of  life,"  I  cried, 
"Around  me  spread,  unknown  and  wide 

Thy  ways,  a  pathless  sea; 
But  Thy  dear  love  till  now  is  tried, 
And  I  will  go  where  Thou  wilt  guide, 
And  where  Thou  art  I  dare  abide, 

Forever  safe  in  Thee!" 


Born  in  Augusta.  January,  1810.  His  father,  Hon.  H .  W.  Fuller,  was  a  leading  lawyer, 
and  his  mother  was  sister  of  Miss  Hannah  F.  Gould,  the  poetess.  Fuller  graduated  at 
Bowdoin  with  the  salutatory,  and,  when  made  Master  of  Arts,  had  the  Latin  valedictory. 
Later,  he  pronounced  the  annual  oration  before  the  Athenian  Society.  After  reading 
law  at  Cambridge,  he  spent  several  months  in  Florida  for  his  health,  and,  soon  after  his 
arrival  there,  had  his  legal  skill  put  to  the  test  in  the  trial  of  an  Indian  chief,  and  prose 
cuted  his  defence  with  marked  success.  The  reputation  which  this  gave  him  led  to  his 
being  summoned  to  Tallahassee  to  defend  a  negro  for  murder,  and,  by  procuring  the  ac- 
quital  of  the  prisoner,  he  received  a  sufficient  sum  to  meet  the  expenses  of  his  nine 
months'  sojourn,  and  furnish  himself  with  a  library.  Returning  to  Augusta,  he  became 
partner  with  his  father  for  ten  years.  He  afterwards  removed  to  Boston,  and  continued 
the  practice  of  law  for  thirteen  years,  when  he  was  appointed  Clerk  of  the  Circuit  Court 
of  the  United  States  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts,  and  held  "the  position  eleven 
years,  when  he  resigned,  and  has  since  then  acted  as  trustee  and  treasurer  for  different 
persons  and  corporations.  His  love  of  horticulture  and  agriculture  led  him  to  purchase 
a  farm  a  few  miles  from  Boston,  which  he  converted  into  the  Woodlawn  Cemetery.  He 
is  now  vice-president  of  the  Massachusetts  Horticultural  Society,  and  Chairman  of  the 
Society  of  Arts,  Institute  of  Technology,  Boston. 


THE  VICTIM. 

I  knew  her  when  a  playful  girl, 
With  sunny  cheek  and  brow — 

Her  flowing  hair  and  glossy  curl 
I  well  remember  now. 

For  her  I  plucked  the  sweetest  flower, 

And  earliest  of  the  fruit, 
And  sought  rich  shells  upon  the  shore 

To  string  about  her  lute. 

I  saw  her  when  the  simple  days 
Of  childhood  all  were  o'er, 

As  unaffected  in  her  ways, 
And  perfect  as  before. 


ANN  SOPHIA  WINTERBOTHAM  STEPHENS.  137 


She  was  the  brightest  gem  I  met 

Within  the  halls  of  mirth, 
And  every  feature  was  so  sweet, 

I  deemed  her  not  of  earth. 

Her  fairy  form  and  buoyant  air 

Bespoke  a  spirit  free; 
And  graceful  as  the  gossamer 

She  passed  away  from  me. 

I  saw  her  next  in  holy  hour 

Float  up  the  sacred  aisle, 
And  with  the  FAITHLESS  kneel  before 

The  altar-place  awhile. 

I  saw  the  priest,  the  book,  the  ring, 
And  heard  the  vows  they  spake, 

I  knew  he  did  a  heartless  thing, — 
He  vowed  but  to  forsake. 

With  bounding  step  I  saw  her  go 

In  splendor  to  her  home, 
Without  a  shade  of  present  woe, 

Or  fear  of  aught  to  come. 

But  oh!  a  change!  that  once  bright  eye 

Disclosed  a  burdened  soul; 
For  he  who  shared  her  destiny 

Bowed  at  the  maddening  bowl. 

Ye  who  have  seen  affliction  steal 
The  health-glow  from  the  cheek, 

Wlren  eye  and  brow  and  step  reveal 
What  lip  may  never  speak, — 

Chide  not,  that  o'er  the  early  sleep 

Of  one  so  soon  at  rest, 
I  pause  in  sympathy  to  weep, 

Upon  the  grave's  green  breast. 


jjitttertolhmq 


This  distinguished  authoress,  the  first  woman  who  ever  received  a  cablegram  across  the 
ocean,  and  that  from  Queen  Victoria,  was  born  in  Derby,  Conn.,  1810,  and  died  in  the 


seventy-seventh  year  of  her  age,  Aug.  20,  188G,  at  the  summer  residence  of  her  publisher, 
C.  »J.  Peterson,  Newport.  H.  I.  With  her  the  last  of  what  may  be  called  the  first  genera 
tion  of  American  female  authors  passed  away.  She  began  writing  at  the  early  age  of  17, 
taking  her  first  story  to  the  office  of  John  Neal,  at  Portland,  for  his  opinion.  He  describes 


11 


138  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


her  as  a  "  woman  of  great  original  genius,  with  poetry  in  her  blood,  patient,  industrious, 
and  full  of  impassioned  enthusiasm."  The  number  of  her  novels  has  been  stated  as  high 
as  fifty,  and  one  of  them,  "  Fashion  and  Famine,"  had  the  most  extensive  sale  of  any  story 
of  the  day — paralleled  only  by  Mrs.  Stowe's  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  One  of  her  histori 
cal  novels,  "Anne  Boleyn,"  was  also  very  much  liked.  Three  different  translations  of 
"  Fashion  and  Famine,"  were  made  into  French.  Mrs.  S.  was  editor  of  The  Portland 
Magazine  for  the  year  1835-6  She  received  $5,000  from  Peterson  for  a  prize  serial  story. 
Mrs.  Stephens  left  a  son  and  daughter,  both,  we  believe,  born  in  Portland. 


THE  DYING  HUSBAND. 

Dearest,  I'm  dying: — bend  thee  down 

One  little  moment  by  my  bed, 
And  let  the  shadow  of  thy  hair 

Fall  gently  o'er  my  aching  head. 

Oh,  raise  me  up,  and  let  me  feel 
Once  more  the  beating  of  thy  heart; 

And  press  thy  lips  again  to  mine 
Before  in  midnight  death  we  part. 

Nay,  tremble  not;  but  fold  me  close, 
Pillowed  upon  thine  own  dear  breast, 

I  fain  would  let  my  struggling  soul 
Pass  forth  to  its  eternal  rest. 

She  stoops,  and  on  her  bursting  heart 
His  drooping  head  is  resting  now, 

While  white  and  trembling  fingers  part 
The  damp  hair  from  his  pallid  brow. 

And  there,  upon  its  cold,  white  front, 
With  quivering  lips  the  kiss  was  given; 

And  pressed  as  if  'twould  draw  him  back; 
Back  from  the  very  gates  of  heaven. 

There,  like  a  dying  bird,  his  soul 
Lay  panting  out  its  quivering  life; 

And  still  his  almost  lifeless  arms 
Clung  fondly  to  his  pale  young  wife. 

One  look  he  gave  her,  and  it  seemed 
An  angel  had  from  heaven  above 

Shaded  with  wings  of  tenderness 
The  troubled  fountain  of  his  love. 

A  holy  smile  came  o'er  his  face, 
As  moonlight  gleaming  over  snow, 

One  struggling  breath — one  faint  embrace, 
And  lifeless  he  is  lying  now. 


RUFVS  TUKEY.-DANIEL  C.  COLESWORTHY.  139 

The  setting  sun  with  golden  light 

Was  flooding  all  the  room  and  bed, 
Enfolding  with  his  pinions  bright 

The  fainting  wife,  the  marble  dead. 


Born  in  Portland,  July  11,  1810,  and  died  in  Minneapolis,  Dec.  1,  1874.  For  several 
years  a  compositor  on  the  Eastern  Argus  and  The  Portland  Tribune,  and  for  eight  years 
on  the  Portland  Transcript. 


THE  MIND. 

There  is  a  mystery  in  the  passing  breeze  — 
In  the  deep  music  of  the  storm-lashed  sea — 

In  woods  and  glens,  in  birds  and  flowers  and  trees, 
But  more  than  all,  in  that  which  lives  in  me. 

The  human  mind — oh,  in  that  mighty  power 
For  good  or  ill,  what  fearful  mysteries  dwell ; 

Man  counts  the  stars,  dissects  the  simple  flower, 
But  who  the  source  of  human  thoughts  can  tell? 

See  yonder  orb — who  made  that  brilliant  sun? 

Who  gave  that  distant  world  such  power  to  shine? 
Can  human  wisdom  scan  what  God  has  done, 

Or  human  thoughts  his  simplest  acts  define? 

Great  Fount  of  Love,  in  Thee  we  place  our  trust, 
To  Thee  we  look,  for  Thou  art  all  in  all — 

Man  in  his  might  is  but  a  thing  of  dust, 
And  at  Thy  feet  in  humble  hope  should  fall. 

Suppress  the  anxious,  feverish  fears  that  rise — 
The  doubts  that  gather  in  thy  troubled  breast; 

Renounce  the  tempter — grasp  the  golden  prize — 
Immortal  life  and  everlasting  rest. 


Daniel  C.  Colesworthy  was  born  in  Portland,  July  14, 1810,  the  son  of  Daniel  P.  and 
Anna  Colesworthy.  He  became  a  printer,  having  served  an  apprenticeship  in  the  office 
of  Arthur  Shirley,  beginning  at  the  age  of  fourteen  years.  He  early  became  the  editor 
and  publisher  of  a  young  people's  paper  called  at  first  The  Sabbath  School  Instructor, 
and  afterwards  Moral  Reformer,  and  Journal  of  Reform,  which,  however,  was  not  of 
many  years  duration.  In  June,  1840,  he  commenced  the  publication  of  a  small  semi 
monthly  paper  called  The  Youth's  Monitor,  which  he  continued  for  about  two  years. 


140  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


In  1841  he  printed  the  first  number  of  a  weekly  literary  paper,  The  Portland  Tribune, 
which  he  continued  for  four  years  and  ten  weeks,  and  in  June,  1845,  sold  his  interest  in 
the  paper  to  John  Edwards,  who  was  publisher  of  the  Portland  fiulletin.  The  two  papers, 
becoming  united,  were  called  the  Tri'mne  and  Bulletin.  Mr.  Colesworthy  kept  a  book 
store  on  Exchange  street,  and  for  awhile  in  the  basement  of  the  old  Manners'  Church 
Building,  corner  of  Fore  and  Moulton  streets.  He  afterwards,  and  before  1861,  removed  to 
Boston  and  opened  a  book-store  on  Cornhill.  He  is  still  proprietor  of  that  store,  and  of  an 
other  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  having  his  home  in  Chelsea.  He  is  a  voluminous  writer, 
both  in  prose  and  verse,  seeking  to  instruct  as  well  as  amuse  his  readers.  Among  his 
publications  are  several  volumes  of  poetry,  which  we  name  in  the  order  of  their  publica 
tion:  "The  Opening  Buds,"  "A  Group  of  Children,"  "  The  Year,"  and  "School  is  Out," 
the  latter  appearing  in  18TG,  with  copious  notes,  valuable  for  their  biographical  and  his 
torical  data. 


KIND  WORDS. 

A  little  word  in  kindness  spoken, 

A  motion  or  a  tear, 
Has  often  healed  the  heart  that's  broken, 

And  made  a  friend  sincere. 

A  word — a  look — has  crushed  to  earth 

Full  many  a  hudcling  flower, 
Which,  had  a  smile  but  owned  its  birth, 

Would  bless  life's  darkest  hour. 

Then  deem  it  not  an  idle  thing, 

A  pleasant  word  to  speak ; 
The  face  you  wear,  the  thoughts  you  bring, 

A  heart  may  heal  or  break. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

Give,  although  your  heart  may  never 
To  a  grateful  tear  respond; 

Deeds  of  kindness  bless  forever, 
Reaching  to  the  world  beyond. 

Do  you  see  the  air  that  closes 
When  the  arrow  speedeth  by? 

Or  the  scents  that  rise  from  roses? 
Or  the  spirit's  glancing  eye? 

So  you  never  may  discover 
Where  a  kindly  act  shall  fall, — 

Nor  the  angel  hosts  that  hover, 
Watching  and  directing-all. 

Give  not  grudgingly  but  freely, 
With  a  heart  allied  to  God, 

And  your  alms  will  prove  to  be  the 
Winglets  scattering  love  abroad. 


JOHN  GEE  EN  LEAF  ADAMS.  141 


CASCO  RIVER. 

Of  the  rivers  bright  and  golden,  In  Penobscot's  verdant  valley 
Rolling  onward  to  the  sea,  Lingered  with  the  savage  wild, 

In  their  beauty  and  their  grandeur,  Till  I  seemed  to  catch  the  spirit 
Thou  the  dearest  art  to  me.  Of  untutored  nature's  child; 

I  have  seen  the  Juniata  On  the  banks  of  sinuous  Nonesuch 
Sweep  its  verdant  banks  along;          Lingered  many  a  sunny  day, 

Listened  to  the  Rappahannock  Till  the  evening  shadows  tore  me 
In  its  rudest,  wildest  song;  From  my  peaceful  joys  away; 

I  have  watched  the  broad  Ohio,         Sailed  upon  the  glorious  Hudson, 
Swelling  from  a  thousand  streams,     Floated  on  old  Congin's  breast; 

And  the  quiet,  meek  Scioto,  But  such  beauties  never  stirred  me 

Brighter  than  a  poet's  dreams;  As  on  Casco's  bosom  rest. 

Heard  the  roaring  of  Niagara,  Golden  river!  well  I  love  thee — 

Wonder  of  the  western  world;  Heaven  of  childhood's  happy  day, 

Seen  the  towering,  icy  mountains  When  upon  thy  sparkling  waters 

In  its  " hell  of  waters"  hurled;  I  was  wont  to  leap  and  play. 

Stood  beside  the  Susquehanna,  Gone  are  schoolmates ;  .cot  and  palace 

And  the  rolling  Merrimack;  Crumbled  by  the  tooth  of  time; 

On  the  noble  Mississippi  But  thou  rollest  in  thy  beauty, 

Marked  the  Indian's  arrowy  track;     Filling  me  with  thoughts  sublime 

By  the  beauteous  Androscoggin         Generations  come  and  linger 
In  a  trance  of  glory  stood,  For  a  season  and  are  gone, 

Listening  to  a  thousand  echoes          But,  unchanging  and  forever, 
From  the  deep,  surrounding  wood ;    Gloriously  thou  rollest  on. 


Rev.  J.  G.  Adams  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  July  30,  1810.  He  became  a  convert 
to  the  Universalist  faith,  and  his  first  sermon  was  preached  in  Westbrook,  Me.,  Jan.  29, 
1832.  After  preaching  and  studying  most  of  that  year,  he  removed  from  Maine  to  Rum- 
ney,  N.  H.,  where  he  was  ordained.  He  worked  as  a  missionary  in  the  northern  part  of 
New  Hampshire  until  the  autumn  of  1836,  when  he  became  pastor  of  the  Universalist 
Church  in  Claremont  and,  after  a  ministry  of  fifteen  months  there,  he  removed  to  Mai 
den,  Mass.,  where  he  had  a  pastorate  of  fifteen  years.  During  his  residence  in  New  Hamp 
shire  he  was  editor  of  the  Star  in  the  East,  a  Universalist  weekly,  issued  at  Concord,  for 
three  and  a  half  years.  From  Maiden  he  removed  to  Worcester,  Mass..  where  he  minis 
tered  seven  years;  thence  to  Providence,  R.  I.,  where  he  tarried  five  years;  thence  to 
Lowell,  Mass.,  where,  after  a  ministry  of  six  and  a  half  years,  he  resigned,  and  was  a 
minister  at  large  during  one  or  two  years.  After  a  pastorate  of  three  years  in  Cincinnati, 
Ohio,  he  returned  to  New  England,  and  settled  in  his  own  home  at  Melrose  Highlands, 
Mass.,  where  he  died  in  the  spring  of  1887.  He  had  five  years  of  supply  preaching  after 
his  return  from  the  West,  in  Allston  and  East  Boston.  In  addition  to  his  constant  work 
as  a  pastor,  Mr.  Adams  published  fifteen  volumes  of  different  sizes,  besides  pamphlets 
and  tracts,  and  edited  Sunday  School  periodicals  for  twenty-two  years. 

11* 


142  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


STRIVE  TO  MAKE  THE  WORLD  BETTER. 

Strive  to  make  the  world  better! — this,  this  is  the  duty 

Proclaimed  to  each  mortal  in  truth  every  hour; 
Call  not  its  wrong,  right, — its  deformity,  beauty; 

In  the  midst  of  its  weakness,  remember  God's  power. 
And,  though  in  a  minute  no  wrong  can  be  righted, 

Think  not  of  contentment  with  just  what  you  see: 
The  world  needs  repentance,  where  souls  are  so  blighted ; 

And  what  it  is  now  is  not  what  it  must  be ! 

"  Take  the  world  as  it  is !"     To  be  sure,  if  such  taking 

Will  win  you  the  heart  of  a  brother,  or  lend 
A  soft  word  or  kind  look  that  shall,  haply,  be  making 

Some  ruin-bound  pilgrim  his  life-ways  amend; 
If  to  praise  it  shall  call  thee,  or  suffering,  or  prayer, 

To  discipline  such  as  may  strengthen  thy  heart, — 
Be  thankful  for  this,  every  way,  but  beware 

Lest  thy  world-taking  lesson  be  learned  but  in  part. 

"  Take  the  world  as  it  is !"     So  the  world's  honored  sages 

Of  many  a  clime  have  consented  and  taught; 
So  walked  with  mankind  the  true  Guide  of  all  ages; 

So  lived  His  apostles,  and  labored  and  wrought; — 
Yet  not  to  be  easy  with  present  attainments, 

Assenting  to  evil  in  lullaby  song, 
But  rather,  to  startle,  with  Truth's  strong  arraignments, 

The  victims  of  sin  and  the  lovers  of  wrong ! 

' '  Take  the  world  as  it  is !"    How  the  slothful  and  sleeping 

Have  ever  consented  these  words  to  obey ! 
Conservator  dolts  still  their  sluggish  steps  keeping, 

And  fearing  the  angel  Reform  in  their  way ! 
The  selfish  observer  of  manners  and  men, 

Who  would  never  offend  by  his  arrant  fault-finding, 
Provided  his  own  ends  are  answered — and  then 

All  the  world  is  but  good,  and  its  faults  not  worth  minding ! 

Strive  to  make  the  world  better !    How  true  to  this  aim 

Have  the  heroes  of  Right  kept  their  way  in  the  past : 
'Mid  the  world's  accusations,  through  dungeon  and  flame, 

Abroad  have  the  seeds  of  their  greatness  been  cast ! 
And  we  have  the  harvest, — their  word  have  we.  too, 

That  the  seed-time  for  us  is  to-day !    Let  it  be 
That  the  world  we  now  have,  though  so  goodly  to  view, 

Is  not  that  improved  one  to-morrow  shall  see ! 


MARK  TRAFTON.  143 


<trk  jj/ajton. 


Rev.  Mark  Trafton  was  born  in  Bangor,  Me.,  Aug.  1, 1810,  his  maternal  grandfather, 
Jacob  Dennett,  being  one  of  the  first  company  who  built  their  log  huts  in  that  wilderness, 
and  his  father,  Maj.  Theodore  Trafton,  settled  therein  1795,  being  the  first  blacksmith  who 
rang  the  "Anvil  Chorus"  in  that  region.  When  15  years  of  age,  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
was  apprenticed  to  Benjamin  Weed  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  shoemaker.  After  three  and 
a  half  years  of  service,  he  "  bought  his  time,"  and  went  to  Kent's  Hill  school  for  a  single 
term,  then,  in  1831,  joined  the  Maine  Conference  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  as  a 
traveling  preacher.  Was  stationed  in  Boston  in  1842-43.  In  1855  was  elected  member  of 
Congress  from  the  llth  district  in  Massachusetts;  beside  this  he  has  been  in  the  ministry 
up  to  this  time.  He  is  now  retired  at  the  age  of  77  years,  and  is  engaged  in  literary  work 
mainly.  He  has  never  published  a  volume  of  poetry,  but  is  the  author  of  "  Rambles  in 
Europe,"  a  treatise  on  "  Baptism,"  "A  Safe  Investment,"  and  "  Sums  in  My  Life."  Miss 
Flora  Trafton,  his  talented  daughter,  has  also  Avritten  some  fine  poems,  printed  in  the 
Portland  Transcript  and  other  family  sheets. 


THE  LOST  GEM. 
A  ship  sailed  out  on  a  summer's  day, 

And  the  breeze  blew  fresh  and  free, 
A  woman,  bent  over  the  quarter-rail, 

Dropped  a  gem  in  the  deep  blue  sea. 

She  saw  it  flash  as  it  sank  from  sight, 
"His  last  pledge,"  she  cries,  "to  me;" 

But  never  again  will  it  gladden  her  eyes, 
That  gem  that  is  under  the  sea. 

A  maiden  sat  by  her  lover's  side, 

And  said,  "It  can  never  be;" 
A  heedless  word,  but  it  reft  from  his  heart 

A  gem  that  is  under  the  sea. 

A  youth  went  forth  from  his  childhood's  home 

To  the  city,  with  heartf ul  glee ; 
The  siren  sang;  his  honor  now 

Is  a  gem  that  is  under  the  sea. 

In  the  halls  of  state  a  proud  man  stood ; 

His  ambition  a  leader  to  be, 
The  bribe  touched  his  palm,  he  sold  for  naught 

A  gem  that  is  under  the  sea. 

A  rich  man  looks  with  a  father's  pride 

On  the  boy  caressed  011  his  knee; 
He  passed  to  his  hope  the  ruby  wine — 

That  gem  is  under  the  sea. 

So  many  there  are  with  sweat  and  moil 

A  house  would  build,  to  be 
A  family  famed ;  change  lifts  her  wand— 

That  gem  is  under  the  sea. 


144  THE  POETS  OF  MA1XE. 


So  in  every  heart  there 's  a  vacant  place 

To  be  filled  by  that  Eden-tree, 
But  the  serpent's  trail  is  on  every  leaf, — 

'Tis  a  gem  that  is  under  the  sea. 

And  so  hath  it  been  through  my  toilsome  life, 
With  the  gift  that  should  come  to  me; 

Now  I  linger,  and  reach  with  weary  hands 
For  a  gem  that  is  under  the  sea! 

Yet  I  muse  and  hope,  when  death  shall  clip 

The  bond  that  sets  me  free, 
I  may  find,  in  some  distant  and  brighter  clime, 

That  gem  that  is  under  the  sea. 


WAITING. 

Waiting,  only  waiting,  by  the  river  dark  and  cold, 
Which,  between  the  seen  and  unseen,  its  mist  has  ever  rolled; 
While  the  evening  shadows  gather,  as  the  day  is.  closing  fast, 
Filling  all  the  near  horizon  and  shading  all  the  past. 

Waiting,  only  waiting,  stranded  on  life's  wreck-strewed  shore, 
With  the  ruins  all  around  me  of  my  loved  and  treasured  store; 
While  fate's  unfeeling  billows,  breaking  on  the  shifting  sands, 
Mocking  all  my  heart's  endeavors  to  unite  those  severed  bands. 

Waiting,  only  waiting,  while  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west, 
Listening  for  the  Steward's  summons  from  life's  labor  to  its  rest, 
When  the  sowers  and  the  reapers,  their  golden  sheaves  among, 
Shall  gather  with  the  Master,  and  the  "harvest-home"  be  sung. 

Waiting,  only  waiting;  yet  they  serve  who  stand  and  wait, 

To  do,  or  suffer,  ready  whichsoever  may  be  their  fate; 

The  true,  heroic  spirit,  be  its  lot  or  smiles  or  tears, 

Youth  or  age,  will  march  to  duty  when  the  signal  cross  appears. 

Waiting,  only  waiting,  for  the  last  few  sands  to  run, 

The  stern  life-battle  ended,  and  the  set  task  fully  done; 

Then  joy  shall  crown  the  victor  and  sweet  peace  fill  the  breast, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


Francis  Barbour,  son  of  Joseph  Barbour,  Esq.,  of  Gorhani,  was  born  in  1811,  and  grad 
uated  at  Bowdoin  College,  in  1830,  and  afterwards  pursued  the  study  of  law,  and  still 
later  that  of  medicine.  Not  satisfied,  however,  with  these  pursuits,  he  determined  tode- 
Tote  himself  to  the  art  of  painting,  for  which  he  had  an  early  taste.  He  visited  Bos 
ton  and  New  York,  to  receive  instruction  in  his  favorite  pursuit,  but,  unwilling  to  endure 
the  drudgery  imposed  on  the  beginner,  he  returned  to  Gorham  to  pursue  his  chosen  art 
by  himself  Mr.  Barbour  is  remembered  by  his  college  friends  and  other  acquaintances, 


FRANCIS  BARBOUE.  145 

as  "gentlemanly  in  his  deportment  and  graceful  in  his  manners, — generous,  high-minded 
and  honorable  in  his  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men;  independent  in  thought,  word,  and 
action,"  and  at  the  same  time  governed  by  that  "kindness  and  good  sense  that  never 
allowed  his  independence  to  degenerate  into  obstinacy."  He  passed  slowly  and  silently 
into  the  grave.  His  disorder,  consumption,  did  not  wholly  interrupt  his  studies  until  the 
day  of  his  death.  On  the  preceding  day  he  was  engaged  upon  a  portrait  which  he  left 
unfinished.  He  left,  in  his  portraits  and  other  paintings,  evidence  of  no  common  genius. 
Mr.  Barbour  died  at  his  father's  residence  in  Gorham,  March  1,  1839,  aged  28. 


VESPERS. 

The  hour  of  prayer ! 

Within  the  crowded  chancel,  while  the  shroud 
Of  night  comes  down  upon  the  poor  and  proud, 

Low  bended  there ! 

Perchance  there  be 
Some  lowly  worshippers  at  even-tide, 
Breathing  their  humble  prayer,  on  some  hillside 

By  the  deep  sea: 

Or  in  the  drear 

And  rayless  coverts  of  the  pathless  woods, 
With  scarce  a  stream  to  glad  their  solitudes, 

Or  light  to  cheer. 

And  suppliant  now, 
At  altars  beaten  by  tempest's  shock, 
At  some  rude  cross  upon  the  rifted  rock, 

They  humbly  bow. 

A  chastening  power 
Falls  like  the  coming  of  an  angel  spell, 
O'er  the  calmed  spirit,  when  the  shadows  tell 

The  evening  hour. 

Thus  at  the  close 

Of  life's  short  day,  may  its  receding  light, 
Which  led  us  on,  be  peaceful,  calm  and  bright, 

As  when  it  rose. 

And  may  no  fear 

Upon  our  hearts  a  trembling  record  trace, 
And  may  we  go  to  our  long  resting-place 

Without  a  tear. 

FROM  "THE  SCOTTISH  COVENANTERS." 
Hark!  from  the  mountain  rock 

Is  heard  the  voice  of  prayer; 
The  hearts  that  seek  the  battle  shock 

Are  bowed  in  meekness  there. 


146  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

The  armory  of  war  is  round, 
Where  once  in  peace  they  trod, 

But  nought  is  heard  of  the  war's  wild  sound,- 
They  bow  before  their  God. 

The  voice  of  youth  is  sweet, 

Coming  like  music  thence ; 
It  is  a  holy  place,  and  meet 

For  the  prayer  of  innocence. 
As  flowers  which  usher  in  the  spring 

More  fragrance  will  impart, 
Thus  fresh  and  fair  the  offering, 

From  childhood's  fervent  heart. 

Manhood  has  bent  his  strength, 

In  supplication  now, 
The  fire  of  battle  has  at  length 

Fled  from  his  noble  brow ; 
His  might  has  failed,  but  he  sheds  no  tears, 

Though  earthly  hopes  are  riven; — 
N  or  hosts  of  earth,  nor  aught  he  fears, 

Save  the  holiness  of  heaven. 

"  There  are  men  of  whitened  brow" 

Among  that  mountain  clan, — 
The  knee  is  bended  now 

That  never  bent  to  man, 
Though  o'er  their  sires'  once  happy  soil 

A  cloud  of  darkness  rolls, 
Yet  tyranny  and  age  and  toil 

Cannot  subdue  their  souls. 


>tarer. 


William  H.  Storer,  son  of  Ebenezer  and  Catherine  (Stephenson)  Storer,  of  Gorham, 
Maine,  and  grandson  of  Capt.  John  and  Tabitha  (Longfellow)  Stephenson,  was  born  in 
that  place,  in  1811,  and  died  Aug.  22,  1878,  aged  67. 

THE  POET'S  HOME. 

INSCRIBED    TO    R.  H. 

The  sun  had  now  set  o'er  the  landscape  away, 

That  so  lately  rejoiced  in  his  smile; 
And  nought  was  there  heard  save  sweet  Philomel's  lay, 

As  the  eve  star  shone  brightly  the  while. 
But  soon  came  the  sound  as  I  wandered  along, 

That  proclaimed  to  the  heart  when  it  neared, 
As  of  old  the  rock  rivulet  breathing  its  song, 

'Neath  the  hill  where  the  mansion  appeared. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  STORER.  147 

'Twas  then  on  the  bridge  as  I  silently  gazed, 

O'er  the  past  would  the  memory  roam: 
And  many  a  picture  there  fondly  I  raised, 

Of  the  Poet  who  once  had  a  home. 
Has  Fate  then,  I  sighed,  with  her  shears  cut  the  thread 

That  was  spun  in  so  classic  a  mould, 
And  the  scholar  consigned  to  oblivion's  dead, 

There  to  vengeance  and  calumny  sold? 

Now  shadows  flit  o'er  as  the  twilight  grows  dim, 

Still  they  paint  the  Academy  hall, 
Where  the  youth  of  each  sex  were  instructed  by  him, 

And  his  knowledge  respected  by  all; 
For  a  heart  so  fine  spun  no  exactions  allowed, 

As  a  well-spring  it  ceased  not  to  flow, — 
Liberality  glowed,  for  he  taught  all  the  crowd, 

And  charged  nothing,  or  else  very  low. 

He  worshipped  not  Mammon,  and  thus  was  to  blame, 

And  so  judged  by  a  pitiless  race ; 
Though  many  he  taught  to  get  wealth,  earn  their  fame, 

Now  of  late  have  averted  their  face; 
At  misfortune  he  laughs,  for  Pride  he  well  knows, 

Reigning  Fashion  and  Mammon  in  hand, 
Will  ride  o'er  the  poor,  though  from  poverty  rose, 

And  would  starve,  or  them  banish  the  land. 

Thus  much  were  my  thoughts  as  I  went  up  the  hill, 

From  the  bridge  where  I  musingly  stood; 
Till  I  fronted  the  mansion,  so  ancient  and  still, 

Once  the  home  of  the  learned  and  good. 
But  Destruction  now  worked  at  the  Temple  of  Fame, 

And  sapped  were  its  pillars  so  fair ; 
A  tenantless  shrine,  though  't  is  not  without  name, 

For  the  fame  of  the  Poet  is  there. 

'Tis  ever  the  fate,  here  I  said  to  myself, 

Misfortune  the  poor  will  attend ; 
And  the  Sage  with  the  Poet  is  laid  on  the  shelf, 

Though  mankind  he  himself  would  befriend. 
Still  an  Exile,  he  sings  of  his  dear  native  home, 

Of  his  childhood  that  smiled  on  him  fair, 
Of  the  scenes  of  his  labors  when  schooldays  had  come, 

And  the  loved  ones  bestowed  on  his  care. 

The  sun  through  the  day  lights  the  old  mansion  still, 
And  the  stars  keep  their  watch  in  the  night; 


148  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

O'er  the  rocks  by  the  bridge  flows  the  serpentine  rill, 
Here  and  there  as  it  glances  in  sight; 

But  Despair  haunts  the  place,  for  its  spirit  has  gone, 
And  her  arm  to  the  air  wildly  flings, 

As  she  points  o'er  the  wreck  crumbling  fast  and  alone, 
Listens  sadly  as  Philomel  sings. 

Thus  I  mused  with  myself  for  the  Exile  so  lone, 

Sure  his  genius  rewarded  will  be; 
And  that  Time  moist  ere  long  rear  the  Poet  a  stone, 

His  kind  soul  from  base  calumny  free; 
For  the  crown  that  from  Dante  and  Petrarch  was  torn, 

Still  breathed  in  its  laurels  their  song, 
And  Tyranny  quailed  for  a  race  yet  unborn, 

Rose  in  vengeance, — atoned  for  the  wrong. 

In  darkness  I  strove,  but  serene  was  the  ray, 

That  enlightened  the  shrine  of  the  past, 
As  the  harp,  that  is  swept  by  the  winds  for  its  lay, 

Still  echoes  and  thrills  to  the  last. 
For  the  sun  of  to-morrow  paints  trembling  the  sound, 

At  its  rise  glowing  Memnon  with  fire, 
So  the  breath  of  true  genius  undying  is  found, 

And  will  march  till  the  world  shall  expire. 

Adown  in  the  vale  his  sweet  music  I  hear, 

And  the  solitude  wakes  from  its  rest; 
The  landscape  shakes  off  with  a  smile  the  cold  tear, 

At  the  pathos  so  warmly  expressed. 
For  already  Aurora  has  ushered  the  morn, 

And  her  roses  she  strows  for  the  sun, 
Whilst  he  sighs  at  the  thought  of  his  life's  rosy  dawn; 

Or  the  thorns  that  his  victory  won. 

This  tribute  is  due,  though  the  world  view  it  not, 

Would  the  heart's  sacred  fount  even  seal; 
Yet  the  tear  of  true  sympathy  ne'er  is  forgot, 

Nor  with  Charity  ceases  to  feel, 
As  the  banner  of  Hope  gaily  catches  the  breeze, 

And  sweet  friendship  discloses  its  ray, 
Oh,  who  can  then  paint  as  the  wretched  he  sees, 

Press  the  hand  and  smile  sorrows  away? 


NA  THA NIEL  GOEHAM  STUE GIS.  149 


Son  of  Rev.  Nathaniel  Sturgis,  a  Free-will  Baptist  minister,  was  born  in  Danville,  now 
Auburn,  June  30, 1811,  and  died  Feb.  1, 1880.  He  was  one  of  the  most  active  and  earnest 
of  the  early  Abolitionists,  and  was  a  member  of  the  first  City  Council  of  Auburn.  Mr. 
Sturgis  frequently  contributed  articles  to  the  Morning  Star,  then  published  at  Dover, 
N.  H.  The  following  hymn  was  composed  by  him,  and  sung  at  the  dedication,  .May  11, 
1842,  of  the  Danville  and  Poland  Free-will  Baptist  Church,  of  which  he  afterwards  be 
came  a  deacon. 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 

Great  God !  our  everlasting  friend, 

Who  art  enthroned  in  worlds  above; 
Let  Thy  good  spirit  now  descend, 

And  fill  our  hearts  with  peace  and  love. 

• 
Dear  Lord!  we've  reared  this  earthly  frame, 

In  which  to  meet  and  worship  Thee; 
To  praise  Thy  great  and  glorious  name, 

That  name  which  makes  Thy  children  free. 

We  dedicate  this  house  to  Thee, 
Accept  our  offering  at  our  hand ; 

And  may  we  ever  humble  be, 
Whene'er  we  in  this  temple  stand. 

And  wilt  Thou  deign  to  meet  us  here; 

Within  these  walls  make  Thine  abode. 
And  may  each  heart,  in  humble  prayer, 

Find  free  acceptance  with  our  God. 

And  when  Thy  servant  here  shall  meet 

His  flock  for  humble  praise, 
O  with  Thy  gospel  guide  his  feet, 

And  fill  his  heart  with  heavenly  grace. 

Whene'er  Thy  children  shall  arise 
To  sing  Thy  praise  in  sacred  song; 

Make  them  in  understanding  wise, 
And  with  Thy  spirit  move  their  tongue. 

Dear  Lord!  whene'er  we  cease  to  stand 

In  earthly  temples  here  below; 
Then  raise  our  souls  to  Thy  right  hand, 

Where  ceaseless  praises  ever  flow. 


ISO  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Born  in  Farmington,  Sept.  14,  1811,  and  died  in  Jay,  Dec.  21,  1858.  Her  ancestors,  on 
both  sides  of  the  family,  were  Maine  people.  For  more  than  25  years  Miss  Mower  was  a 
confirmed  invalid,  and  was  denied  the  privilege  of  meetings  or  social  intercourse  with  her 
friends  abroad.  She  was  the  authoress  of  a  little  work  entitled  "  The  Snow-Drop." 
"  Winds,  as  they  played  through  groves  that  surround  her  aged  father's  retired  and  hum 
ble  dwelling,  sweet  songsters,  as  they  caroled  from  spray  to  spray,  and  the  ripple  of  the 
Androscoggin,  as  it  glided  past,  to  her  ear,  were  nature's  sweet  minstrels  that  cheered 
her  heart  in  solitude  and  inspired  her,  too,  to  attempt  the  artless  strains  of  nature." 


THE  SNOW-DROP. 

Sweet  little  unassuming  flower, 

It  stays  not  for  an  April  shower, 

But  dares  to  rear  its  tiny  head, 

While  threat' ning  clouds  the  skies  o'erspread. 

• 

It  ne'er  displays  the  vain  desire 
To  dress  in  flaunting,  gay  attire; 
No  purple,  scarlet,  blue,  or  gold, 
Decks  its  fair  leaves  when  they  unfold. 

Born  on  a  cold  and  wintry  night, 
Its  flowing  robes  are  snowy  white ; 
No  vernal  zephyrs  fan  its  form, — 
It  often  battles  with  the  storm. 

It  never  drank  mild  summer's  dew, 
But  chilling  winds  around  it  blew ; 
And  hoary  frost  his  mantle  spread 
Upon  the  little  snow-drop's  bed. 

I  love  this  modest  little  flower; — 
It  comes  in  desolation's  hour, 
The  barren  landscape's  face  to  cheer, 
When  none  beside  it  dares  appear. 

Just  like  the  friend,  whose  brightest  smile 
Is  spared,  our  sorrows  to  beguile, 
Who,  like  some  angel  from  the  sky, 
When  needed  most,  is  ever  nigh — 

To  pluck  vile  slander's  envious  dart, 
To  soothe  in  grief  the  bleeding  heart, 
And  raise  from  earth  the  drooping  head 
When  all  our  summer  friends  are  fled. 


EDWAED  HENRY  THOMAS.  J51 


divnrct 


Edward  Henry  Thomas,  born  in  Portland,  January,  1812,  fitted  for  college  under  the 
well-remembered  Deacon  Joseph  Libby;  studied  law  with  the  Hon.  Stephen  Longfellow, 
and  was  admitted  to  practice  in  the  bar  of  that  city.  He  opened  an  office  in  Portland, 
where,  as  he  writes  under  date  of  1858,  with  characteristic  humor,  he  "  had  but  one  cage 
for  some  time,  and  that  was  his  book-case."  He  removed  to  Harrison,  where  he  hoped 
for  cases  "not  so  wooden,"  and  was  not  wholly  disappointed;  where,  as  he  states,  he 
"  played  the  flute  in  the  singing  seats  on  Sunday,  at  times  putting  in  considerable  exe 
cution  on  the  psalmody,"  as  his  college  friends,  recalling  his  peculiar  taste  and  skill,  will 
readily  suppose.  Not  entirely  satisfied  with  his  prospects,  he  not  long  after  returned  to 
Portland,  speculated  somewhat  in  wild  lands,  but  "found  that  such  speculations  were 
much  more  serious  in  their  consequences  than  metaphysical  speculations."  He  set  out 
for  the  great  West  in  1838  with  a  friend,  settled  in  Wapello,  Iowa,  and  practiced  law 
until  1851.  In  1844  he  was  appointed  district  attorney  for  the  middle  district  of  the  then 
Territory  of  Iowa,  comprising  eight  counties,  and  served  in  the  office  two  years;  as  he 
writes,  "  sending  few  convicts  to  the  penitentiary,  and  not  getting  all  my  pay  till  several 
years  after."  In  1851  he  returned  to  Portland,  and  engaged  in  the  land-warrant  business. 
and  "  made  some  money,  which  I  sank  in  the  late  financial  storm."  In  1853  he  visitea 
Europe.  In  1854  he  returned  to  Iowa  and  engaged  in  the  business  of  banking.  In  1855  he 
married,  "  following  in  the  line  of  safe  precedents,"  he  declares,  Miss  Charlotte  A.  Du- 
bois,  in  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.  Mr.  Thomas  has  for  some  years  endured  the  calamity  of 
almost  total  blindness,  but  retains  his  cheerful  spirit  and  characteristic  humor.  We  are 
indebted  to  the  pen  of  the  late  Pi'of.  Packard  for  the  above  sketch.  Mr.  Thomas's  wife 
died  Dec.  28,  1861,  leaving  one  son,  Chas.  W.  Thomas.  Mr.  Thomas's  father  was  chief  clerk 
in  the  Custom  House  for  20  years,  and  State  Treasurer  for  four  years. 


QUEEN  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Fair  Queen  of  the  night!  I  love  tliee  well, 
In  thy  realms  of  light  would  I  ever  dwell; 
But  I  know  that  on  earth  this  cannot  be, 
Yet  I  love  to  sit  and  gaze  at  thee, 
As  with  silver  clasp  thou  dost  unite 
The  parting  day  and  coming  night. 
And  I  love  to  stroll  along  the  shore, 
When  day  and  all  its  cares  are  o'er, 
And  behold  thee  rise  from  out  the  sea 
And  come  across  the  waves  to  me, 
In  one  broad  band  of  silver  ray, 
Following  my  steps  where'er  I  stray, 
As  if  thy  tranquil  glory  shone 
Not  upon  others,  but  me  alone. 
'Tis  then  thy  light  my  soul  doth  lill, 
And  bids  its  troubled  waves  be  still; 
And  whispers  of  that  heavenly  shore, 
Where  moons  shall  wax  and  wane  no  more — 
That  better  land  beyond  the  sky 
Where  night  comes  not  and  God  is  nigh. 

FROM  "THE  NEW  YEAR." 

In  seeming  death  the  year  is  born,  • 

When  all  the  world  lies  hushed  in  sleep; 

When  midway  'twixt  the  eve  and  morn 
The  stars  their  silent  vigils  keep ; 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


When  wintry  snows  enrobe  the  earth 
As  if  they  were  its  winding  sheet. 

'Tis  thus  the  glad  New  Year  has  birth; 
'Tis  thus  the  glad  New  Year  we  greet; 

But  winter's  snows  shall  melt  away; 
The  frozen  glebe  shall  smile  again; 

All  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  May. 


izribeth  jjttchw 

This  famous  Avoman,  sister  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  and  wife  of  Rev.  Prof.  C.  E.  Stowe, 
was  born  at  Litohfield,  Conn.,  1812.  She  was  married  to  Prof.  Stowe  in  1832,  and  their 
removal  to  Brunswick,  in  this  State,  seems  to  have  been  an  epoch  in  its  history.  They 
lived  in  the  house  which  had  been  the  home  of  Parson  Titcomb,  and  here,  without  even 
aservant  to  aid  her  iu  the  care  of  house  and  children,  Mrs.  Stowe  wrote  a  serial  tale  for 
the  Washtntfto'n  Era,  and  this  tale,  republished  in  book  form,  under  the  title  of  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,"  soon  carried  her  name  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  earth,  and  gave  her  a 
place  among  the  great  authors  of  the  day.  Maine  has  also  the  honor  of  being  the  scene 
of  Mrs.  Stowe's  delightful  story,  "  The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island,"  which  island  is  the  middle 
one  of  the  line  at  Harpa well,  and  here  she  has  spent  many  summer  months,  and  declares 
that  the  scenery  is  "  of  more  varied  and  singular  beauty  than  can  ordinarily  be  found  on 
the  shores  of  any  land  whatever."  In  1853,  Mrs.  Stowe  published  a  key  to  "  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  and  made  a  visit  to  Europe,  where  she  was  received  with  distinguished  consider 
ation.  She  has  written  several  other  books,  all  of  which  are  well  known,  and  was  at  one 
time  joint  editor  of  Hearth  and  Home.  Charles  E  ,  one  of  her  sons,  was  for  three  years 
pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Saco. 


THE  OLD  PSALM  TUNE. 

You  asked,  dear  friend,  the  other  day, 

Why  still  my  charmed  ear 
Rejoicetli  in  uncultured  tone 

That  old  psalm  tune  to  hear? 

I  've  heard  full  oft,  in  foreign  lands, 
The  grand  orchestral  strain, 

Where  music's  ancient  masters  live, 
Revealed  on  earth  again, — 

Where  breathing,  solemn  instruments, 
In  swaying  clouds  of  sound, 

Bore  up  the  yearning,  tranced  soul 
Like  silver  wings  around  ;— 

I've  heard  in  old  St.  Peter's  dome, 
Where  clouds  of  incense  rise, 

Most  ravishing  the  choral  swell 
Mount  upwards  to  the  skies. 

And  well  I  feel  the  magic  power, 
When  skilled  and  cultured  art 

Its  cunning  webs  of  sweetness  weaves 
Around  the  captured  heart. 


HAEEIET  ELIZABETH  B  EEC  HER  STOWE.  153 

But  yet,  dear  friend,  though  rudely  sung, 

That  old  psalm  tune  hath  still 
A  pulse  of  power  beyond  them  all 

My  inmost  soul  to  thrill. 

Those  halting  tones  that  sound  to  you, 

Are  not  the  tones  I  hear; 
But  voices  of  the  loved  and  lost, 

There  meet  my  longing  ear. 

I  hear  my  angel  mother's  voice, — 
hose  were  the  words  she  sung; 
I  hear  my  brother's  ringing  tones, 
As  once  on  earth  they  rung; 

And  friends  that  walk  in  white  above 

Come  round  me  like  a  cloud, 
And  far  above  those  earthly  notes 

Their  singing  sounds  aloud. 

There  may  be  discord,  as  you  say; 

Those  voices  poorly  ring; 
But  there's  no  discord  in  the  strain 

Those  upper  spirits  sing. 

For  they  who  sing  are  of  the  blest, 

The  calm  and  glorified, 
Whose  hours  are  one  eternal  rest 

On  heaven's  sweet  floating  tide. 

Their  life  is  music  and  accord ; 

Their  souls  and  hearts  keep  time 
In  one  sweet  concert  with  the  Lord, — 

One  concert  vast,  sublime. 

And  through  the  hymns  they  sang  on  earth 

Sometimes  a  sweetness  falls 
On  those  they  loved  and  left  below, 

And  softly  homeward  calls, — 

Bells  from  our  own  dear  fatherland, 

Borne  trembling  o'er  the  sea, — 
The  narrow  sea  that  they  have  crossed, 

The  shores  where  we  shall  be. 

O  sing,  sing  on,  beloved  souls  I 
Sing  cares  and  griefs  to  rest; 
Sing,  till  entranced  we  arise, 

To  join  you  'mong  the  blest. 
12 


154  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

THE  OTHER  WORLD. 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud, 

A  world  we  do  not  see; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares, 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

Arid  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The  silence,  awful,  sweet,  and  calm, 
They  have  no  power  to  break ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem, 

They  lull  us  gently  to  our  rest, 
They  melt  into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring, 

'Tis  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be ; — 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  to  that — from  this, — 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us!  watch  us  still; 

Press  nearer  to  our  side ; 
«.       Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 
With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


EDWARD  B.  PLACE.  155 


jjdward 


E.  R.  Place,  the  only  son  of  Rev.  Mr.  Place,  a  Methodist  clergyman,  was  born  in  Port 
land,  about  1812  while  his  father  was  preaching  on  this  circuit.  His  mother,  a  native  of 
Great  Falls,  N.  H.,  died  when  Edward  was  quite  young,  and  his  father,  remarrying,  the 
subject  of  this  sketch  was  reared  by  his  maternal  uncle,  at  Great  Falls.  He  attended 
school  at  Kent's  Hill,  with  the  intention  of  entering  the  ministry,  but  subsequently 
learned  the  book-binder's  trade,  and  entered  the  bindery  of  Sanborn  &  Carter,  on 
Exchange  street,  in  Portland,  where  he  worked  many  years.  He  married,  for  his  first 
wife,  Miss  Sarah  Hedman,  of  Portland,  by  whom  he  had  one  daughter  and  three  sons  ; 
his  second  wife  was  Miss  Susan  Chandler,  of  Auburn,  who  taught  school  many  years  in 
Bangor.  His  two  oldest  sons  died  of  consumption  before  reaching  manhood.  Many  of 
Mr.  Place's  poems  show  his  strong  faith  in  Spiritualism,  and  he  was  also,  especially  in 
the  last  years  of  his  life,  greatly  devoted  to  the  labor  question.  He  was  a  prolific  writer 
in  prose  as  well  as  poetry.  His  wife  survived  him  but  a  few  months.  Mr.  Place  died  in 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  and,  as  a  last  message  to  a  particular  friend,  said,  "  I  am  almost  there, 
my  mind's  eye  undimned." 


O  DO  NOT  GRIEVE. 

O  do  not  grieve  for  friends  ascended; 

More  truly  than  before, 
Their  lives  and  ours  are  fondly  blended, 

With  no  dividing  shore. 
Yea,  they  are  with  us  yet,  and  nearer, 

Unfailing  still  their  love ; 
The  wiser  guardians  seeing  clearer 

Our  pathways  to  the  Above. 

All  hail,  the  great  awak'ning  glory, 

A  new  world's  golden  morn; 
Farewell,  ye  hollow  myths  and  hoary, 

In  ancient  darkness  born. 
Now  languid  Hope,  dull-eyed  and  pining, 

Feels  her  dim  torch  aspire, 
While  angel  groups,  in  white  robes  shining, 

Send  down  Celestial  Fire. 

No  night  unstarred,  no  valley  dismal, 

Awaits  the  pilgrim  worn, 
O'er  whom  is  shed  the  flame  baptismal, 

From  shore  supernal  borne. 
O  bleeding  heart !  thy  deep  affliction 

Is  but  the  summer  shower; 
In  peace  receive  its  benediction, 

Of  sweetness  and  of  power! 


HEAVENLY  TRUST. 

While  every  path  is  dim  with  gloom, 
And  earthly  hope  with  fears ; 

Though  every  step  be  near  a  tomb, 
And  every  smile  through  tears, — 


156  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


One  anchor  hath  the  troubled  soul, 
Untouched  by  mortal  rust: 

0  surer  than  the  magnet's  pole, 
Its  all-sustaining  Trust. 

God  loveth  us;  His  fatherhood 

Enfolds  us  in  His  care; 
He  sends  our  famished  souls  the  food 

Celestial  regions  bear. 
Away,  ye  weeds  of  drifting  doubt! 

Through  billows  high  or  hail, 
The  cable  of  my  soul  is  out, 

'Tis  fast  within  the  vail. 

When  fade  from  sight  the  scenes  below, 

And  this  frail  body  dies, 
Ye  '11  bear  it  hence,  all  still  and  slow, 

Perchance  with  weeping  eyes. 

1  am  not  there !     Ye  lay  not  me 
To  slumber  in  the  dust; 

The  soul  ascends,  a  spirit  free, 
Serene  in  Heavenly  Trust. 


J£0/W/ 

Robert  Cassie  Waterston  was  born  in  Kennebunk,  Maine,  in  1812.  His  father,  Robert 
Waterston,  a  native  of  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  came  to  America  early  in  this  century,  and 
his  mother,  a  daughter  of  the  Lord  family  of  Maine,  gave  to  their  son  an  inheritance  of 
rare  qualities.  While  yet  a  child,  his  parents  removed  to  Boston,  Mass.,  with  which 
city  he  was  ever  after  connected.  His  father,  being  a  parishioner  of  Rev.  Dr.  Chan- 
ning,  the  son  was  brought  up  under  the  influence  of  that  remarkable  preacher.  Mr. 
Waterston  began  his  public  work  early,  as  Superintendent  of  the  Bethel  Sunday-school, 
of  which  church,  Father  Taylor,  the  celebrated  preacher  to  the  seamen,  Avas  the  pastor. 
This  school  attracted  many  remarkable  men  as  teachers,  among  others,  John  A.  Andrew, 
then  a  young  man  from  Maine,  afterwards  the  great  War  Governor  of  Massachusetts. 
Mr.  Waterston  pursued  his  studies  at  the  theological  school,  Cambridge,  until  1839, 
when  he  Avas  appointed  pastor  of  the  Pitts  Street  Chapel,  connected  Avith  the  ministry  at 
large.  In  this  field  of  labor,  among  the  poor,  he  continued  for  six  years  ;  afterwards, 
connected  Avith  various  religious  societies  in  Boston  and  elsewhere.  Mr.  Waterston  was 
very  active  in  all  benevolent  and  educational  objects  ;  amongothers,  he  was  deeply  inter 
ested  in  the  Natural  History  Society,  and  Avas  a  member  of  the  Boston  School  Commit 
tee  for  ten  years.  As  chairman  of  that  committee  he  Avrote  an  elaborate  report  in  1867. 
In  1841,  Mr.  Wat'erston  published  a  work,  entitled  "  Moral  and  Spiritual  Culture,"  which 
was  reprinted  in  America  and  also  in  England  and  Ireland.  As  a  member  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Historical  Society,  he  published,  by  their  request,  memoirs  of  Charles  Sprague, 
George  Sumner,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  and  George  B.  Emerson,  a  son  of  Maine,  of 
Avhom  she  may  Avell  be  proud.  Mr.  Waterston's  poetical  writings  were  principally  sug 
gested  by  special  occasions,  and  many  hymns  and  brief  poems,  a  feAV  of  which  will  be 
found  in'this  volume.  In  1851,  Mr.  Waterston  delivered  an  address  at  the  dedication  of 
the  Preble  Chapel  in  Portland,  appropriated  to  the  Avork  of  the  ministry  at  large.  In 
1852,  he  was  called  to  Augusta,  Maine,  by  the  death  of  the  gifted  Silvester  Judd,  and 
took  charge  of  the  parish  left  bereaved  in  the  loss  of  such  a  pastor,  who  Avas  also  his 
classmate  and  friend.  This  place  he  held  for  six  months.  During  his  residence  in 
Augusta,  he  visited  many  parts  of  the  noble  State  of  Maine,  and  might  well  be  proud  of 
being  one  of  her  sons.  Mr.  Waterston's  rare  gift  of  extempore  speaking  caused  him  fre 
quently  to  be  called  to  address  public  meetings  in  and  out  of  the  pulpit.  He  gave  two 
courses  of  "Lowell  Lectures."  and  frequently  lectured  in  other  places.  His  love  for 
nature  and  art  was  gratified  by  several  years  in  Europe,  and  he  also  travelled  exten 
sively  in  his  own  country.  Such  a  busy  life  contained  more  of  interest  than  can  be 
entered  upon  here,  but  at  its  close  he  is  honored  to  be  enrolled  among  the  sons  of  Maine. 


ROBERT  CASSIE  WATERSTON.  157 


NATURE  AND  THE  SOUL. 

In  each  breeze  that  wanders  free, 
And  each  flower  that  gems  the  sod, 

Living  souls  may  hear  and  see 
Freshly  uttered  words  from  God ! 

Had  we  but  a  searching  mind, 
Seeking  good  where'er  it  springs, 

We  should  then  true  wisdom  find, 
Hidden  in  familiar  things ! 

God  is  present,  and  doth  shine 
Through  each  scene  beneath  the  sky, 

Kindling  with  a  light  divine 
Every  form  that  meets  the  eye. 

Nature,  with  eternal  youth, 
Ever  bursts  upon  the  sight; 

All  her  works  are  types  of  truth, — 
Mirrors  of  celestial  light ! 

But  the  soul,  when  veiled  in  sin, 
And  eclipsed  with  fear  and  doubt, 

From  the  darkened  world  within, 
Throws  its  shade  on  that  without. 

"While  to  those  who,  pure  in  heart, 
For  the  Truth  their  powers  employ, 

She  will  constant  good  impart, 
And  diffuse  perpetual  joy. 

If  the  mind  would  Nature  see, 
Let  her  cherish  Virtue  more ; 

Goodness  bears  the  golden  key 
That  unlocks  her  palace  door ! 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

Here, — (where  the  East  unbars  the  Gates  of  Day,) 
Love,  Liberty  and  Law,  hold  genial  sway; 
While  Patriots  see,  with  honest  joy  and  pride, 
The  Schoolhouse  and  the  Church,  stand  side  by  side ! 

Here, — Poetry  has  swept  her  golden  lyre; 
Here, — Eloquence  has  breathed, — in  words  of  fire; 
Here, — Heaven-born  Worth  a  favored  home  has  found; 
Till  the  whole  land  seems  consecrated  ground ! 


158  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Here, — Adams, — Quincy, — Otis, — Hancock  stood, 
Defying  danger,  for  their  country's  good; 
Bravely  they  spoke,  in  fortune's  darkest  hour, 
And  kingdoms  shook  before  their  words  of  power ! 

Where  through  the  past  was  there  sublimer  fame, 
Than  that  connected  with  the  Pilgrims'  name? 
What  could  a  people  have,  or  wish  for,  more 
Than  the  immortal  Rock  on  Plymouth  shore? 

Swift, — may  each  hallowed  influence  expand, 

In  ever-widening  circles,  o'er  the  land; 

Till  the  fine  Seed  of  Life,  the  "Mayflower"  brought, 

Sows  the  vast  continent  with  Noble  Thought! 


THE  DEPARTED. 

Genius  for  us  has  wrought, 
Martyrs  have  bravely  died  midst  flood  and  fire, 

And  patriots  gladly  sought, 
Within  our  souls  fresh  valor  to  inspire ! 

Their  voice  is  on  the  air; — 
They  speak  in  every  breeze  where'er  we  roam, 

They  bid  us  guard  with  care 
The  virtues  of  our  country  and  our  home ! 

Their  influence  fills  the  past 
With  noble  thoughts,  and  generous  deeds  sublime ! — 

Rich  legacies !  to  last 
From  sire  to  son,  throughout  all  coming  time. 

The  present  hour  is  theirs; — 
Of  half  our  good  are  they  the  primal  cause; 

Their  struggles,  hopes,  and  prayers, 
Have  given  to  us,  both  liberty  and  laws! 

The  nations  have  their  dead  :— 
Brave  souls  that  like  the  stars  of  light  do  shine; 

Great  spirits  who  have  led 
Benighted  millions  on  to  life  divine. 

And  saintly  forms  above, 
Gentle  and  fair,  may  hover  o'er  the  earth, 

And  bend  in  holy  love, 
O'er  each  sad  heart  that  mourns  departed  worth. 


iS  YL  VES TER  BREAKMOEE  B ECKETT.  159 


O  might  some  heavenly  hand 
Draw  back  the  shadowy  curtains  of  the  sky, 

That  once  the  glorious  band 
Of  bright  angelic  souls  could  meet  the  eye. 

But  they  are  with  us  still 
In  thought  and  deed:— yes,  they  are  with  as  here; 

To  elevate  the  will, 
To  soothe  each  grief  and  calm  each  idle  fear. 

At  the  soft  sunset  hour, 
When  evening  splendors  melt  along  the  sky, 

We  feel  their  hallowing  power, 
To  kindle  faith  and  raise  the  heart  on  high. 

The  mystery  of  life ! — 
O  who  can  sound  its  depths?    Its  bliss?    Its  woe? 

Its  fears?    Its  hopes?    Its  strife?— 
Their  hidden  depths — not  men — but  angels  know. 

We  are  fast  hastening  on ; — 
Soon  must  the  paths  of  death  by  us  be  trod : — 

When  life's  great  work  is  done, 
May  we  be  with  heaven's  host,  and  with  our  God! 

Our  faith, — our  works  of  love, — 
Our  charity  within  the  haunts  of  woe, — 

When  we  shall  soar  above, 
The  memory  of  these  must  live  below! 

The  memory  of  the  just 
Will  still  be  dear,  whate'er  their  earthly  lot ; — 

Dust  may  return  to  dust, 
But  virtue  lives,  and  cannot  be  forgot. 


Solvester 


<t<lhttt. 


Born  in  Portland,  May  16,  1812  ;  died  in  this  city,  Dec.  2, 1882.  Author  of  "  Hester  the 
Bride  of  the  Islands,"  a  long,  narrative  poem,  containing  many  fine  descriptions  of  the 
scenery  of  Casco  Bay,  published  in  Portland,  18GO.  At  an  early  age  Mr.  Beckett  became 
an  apprentice  to  the  printing  business  in  the  office  of  the  Christian  Mirror,  published  in 
his  native  city,  and  remained  as  a  compositor  in  the  office,  contributing  in  prose  and 
verse  to  various  journals  and  magazines  of  the  day.  He  was  for  many  years  connected 
with  the  press  of  Portland  as  editor  and  contributor,  was  long  chairman  of  the  Board  of 
Assessors  of  the  city  of  Portland,  served  on  the  School  Committee,  of  which  he  was  sec 
retary,  and  was  an  active  member  of  the  Society  of  Natural  History,  giving  much  atten 
tion  to  ornithology. 


OLADY!  SING  THAT  SONG  AGAIN! 

O  lady !  sing  that  song  again ; 

Sweet  visions  of  the  past 
Are  wakened  at  the  plaintive  strain — 

Sing  on  and  bid  them  last! 


160  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thou  hast  the  voice  of  one  who  sleeps 

Beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Who  oft  in  bygone,  happy  hours, 

Hath  tuned  those  notes  for  me. 

They  bring  to  mind  the  home  of  youth, 

Beneath  the  old  oak's  shade, 
Each  breezy  slope,  each  rock  and  tree, 

Each  darksome  forest  glade ; 
And  forms  familiar  rise  to  view, 

To  whom  my  heart  would  cling, 
All  clothed  with  beauty,  gladness,  youth, 

Sing  on,  kind  lady,  sing! 

Sad  was  the  day  when  I  went  forth — 

And  death  came  in  my  stead, 
And  they  are*  scattered  through  the  world, 

Or  in  their  "narrow  bed;" 
But  as  I  listen  to  thy  voice, 

In  fancy  blest  I  roam, 
Amidst  the  green  and  peaceful  scenes 

Of  my  forsaken  home ! 


THE  DYING  GIRL. 

*  *  Just  where  the  sun 

Had  sunk  behind  the  hills,  a  scarf-like  cloud, 
Bright  as  the  plumage  of  some  tropic  bird, 
Slept  on  the  lap  of  eve — one  only  cloud, 
As  'twere  a  seraph  lingering  on  the  wing, 
To  bear  the  maiden's  spirit  to  her  home. 
Long  did  she  gaze,  until  at  length  her  thoughts 
Found  utterance  in  her  brother's  bended  ear: 

Brother,  to  part  with  you 

Is  death  indeed!    Yet  doth  the  time  draw  near, 
When  I  must  bid  thee,  and  these  friends  so  dear, 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 

Blest  visions  throng  before 

My  brightening  mind;  and  Sharon's  lovely  rose 
Is  bending,  in  its  sweetness  and  .repose, 

On  the  celestial  shore — 

Thither  to  welcome  me; 
Yet  do  my  poor  affections  strangely  cling 
To  this,  rny  home  of  doubt  and  suffering, 

Kind  brother,  and  to  thee! 


CHARLES  HORACE  UPTON.  101 


Fairer  the  green  land  seems, 
More  beautiful  and  pure  the  sky's  lone  deeps, 
Calmer  the  sunlight  on  those  distant  steeps, 

And  on  the  far,  bright  streams. 

Sweeter  the  free  birds  lay, 
And  fresher  blows  the  zephyr  round  my  brow ; 
The  world  than  ever  seems  more  lovely  now, 

So  soon  to  pass  away. 

And  this  they  call  a  waste ! 
A  weary  bourn!  Oh,  it  hath  been  to  me 
Ever  a  world  of  strange  sublimity, 

With  every  beauty  graced ; 

Yet  must  I  not  deplore 

My  fate,  but  calmly  meet  what  Heaven  wills; 
Then  fare  ye  well,  green  fields  and  swelling  hills, 

Farewell ! — forever  more ! 

Yet,  brother,  do  not  mourn — 
'Tis  but  to  change  a  world  of  doubt  and  gloom 
For  Immortality, — beyond  the  tomb 

I  see  the  blessed  bourn ! 

And  voices,  like  the  strain 

Of  wind-touched  harps,  come  floating  on  my  ear, 
To  beckon  me  away — dry  up  the  tear — 

We  part  to  meet  again ! 


(j^lwrhs 


Born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  August,  1812.  His  father  was  an  active  and  energetic  merchant, 
and  a  resident  of  Belfast  when  the  son  entered  Bowdoin  College.  [Notwithstanding  an 
infirmity  of  the  eyes,  which  came  on  after  graduation,  Charles  contributed  articles  for 
the  press,  and  had  success  as  a  journalist.  In  1835,  he  removed  with  the  family  to  Vir 
ginia,  near  Alexandria,  where  he  resided  several  years.  In  1861,  at  the  opening  of  the 
[Rebellion,  he  was  elected  member  of  Congress  from  the  county  as  a  protest  against  the 
right  of  a  State  to  forbid  the  election.  During  the  war  his  property  was  destroyed,  his 
house  sacked,  and  his  family  more  than  once  compelled  to  flee  for  their  lives.  He  ren 
dered  valuable  service  to  the  Union  cause  ;  but  his  health  was  imich  impaired.  In  1863, 
he  was  appointed  by  President  Lincoln,  Consul  at  Geneva,  and  held  that  position,  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  in  1877.  During  his  service  he  was  repeatedly  appointed  minister  ad 
interim,  and  at  the  time  of  his  decease  was  active  charge  d'affaires  for  Switzerland.  He 
was  a  contributor  to  the  "  Bowdoin  Poets." 


THE  RAINBOW. 

Ethereal  diadem !  whose  blended  rays 

From  no  meridian  splendor  won — 
Yet  burst,  full-formed,  upon  the  wondrous  gaze, 

A  frontlet  braided  by  the  sun. 


162  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Celestial  smile!  beneath  whose  beams  the  dove 

Afar  the  olive  branch  descried, 
And  bore  the  emblem  of  returning  love 

Across  the  water's  ebbing  tide. 

Resplendent  arc !  whose  prism-blended  hues 
First  dwelt  above  with  One  alone, — 

Till  He  the  holy  effluence  did  diffuse 
Around  the  footstool  of  His  throne. 

Sign-manual  of  God !  inscribed  on  high, 

In  characters  of  glowing  light — 
Where,  on  the  tablet  of  the  vaulted  sky, 

None  but  Divinitv  could  write! 


Josiah  D.  Bangs  was  born  in  Springfield,  Mass.,  in  the  year  1810.  Early  in  life  he 
came  to  Maine  and  married  his  wife,  Pauline  A.  Brooks,  daughter  of  John  Brooks,  who 
resided  in  Augusta.  For  fifteen  years  the  greater  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  Maine, 
and  much  of  the  time  was  occupied  in  teaching  in  the  common  public  schools  ;  while  thus 
engaged,  he  wrote  many  poems  and  stories  for  newspapers  and  magazines.  In  184.3,  he 
went  to  New  York  City,  and  engaged  with  Horace  Greeley,  and  some  other  publishers  of 
newspapers,  in  reporting  local  news,  and  had  the  credit  of  making  one  of  the  best  report 
ers  of  that  time.  During  the  year  1850,  he  bought  into  the  Sunday  Courier,  of  which  he 
was  publisher  [and  editor  until  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1856.  He  was  buried  in 
Greenwood  Cemetery,  New  York  City. 


MERRY  OLD  HOUSEHOLD  FIRE. 

I  love  the  lire,  the  clear  wood-lire, 

With  its  merry  old  honest  blaze, 
As  its  light  beams  forth,  like  a  glance  of  mirth 

From  a  friend  of  the  olden  days. 
The  fire !— the  fire !— the  bright-browed  fire ! 

With  its  voice  like  a  pleasant  lay, 
And  its  laugh  outright  at  the  frosty  sprite, 

And  storms  of  old  Winter  gray ! 

They  may  drag  the  coal  from  its  dusky  hole, 

Like  an  imp  from  the  pit  of  shame, 
And  the  cold,  rich  walls,  'round  the  palace  halls, 

May  glow  with  its  sullen  flame ; 
But  the  cheek  will  pale  as  a  sickly  veil 

Were  over  the  features  thrown ; 
And  the  eye  grow  dim,  unnerved  the  limb, 

At  the  glance  of  the  burning  stone. 


JOSIAH  D.  BANGS.  16S 


Yet  never  you  fear  the  wood-lire  clear, 

As  it  leaps  from  the  hearth-stone  high — 
As  it  sparkles  and  spits,  and  sings  by  fits, 

Will  sadden  the  cheek  or  eye. 
Oh,  no !  not  so ! — but  a  rosier  glow 

O'er  the  blushing  cheek  spreads  free, 
And  the  eye  grows  bright  with  a  merrier  light, 

In  the  blaze  of  the  green-wood  tree. 

I  love  the  fire — the  old  wood-fire — 

'Neath  the  humble  roof  that  gleams — 
As  a  welcome  warm  from  wind  and  storm, 

For  the  weary  and  sad  it  beams. 
For  the  houseless  poor,  at  the  palace  door, 

Need  seek  no  sheltering  dome, 
While  never  as  yet  hath  the  wanderer  met 

Repulse  in  the  poor  man's  home. 

That  pilgrim  band,  as  they  touched  the  strand, 

'Mid  the  gloom  of  the  tempest  dire, 
They  kindled  it  then,  those  stern-browed  men, 

The  merry  old  household  fire. 
And  the  stout  tall  trees  that  had  braved  the  breeze, 

Long  ere  the  Mayflower  came; 
Their  forms  still  bow  to  feed  e'en  now, 

That  homely  but  hallowed  flame. 

And  I  love  that  fire — the  household  fire — 

For  it  speaks  of  the  olden  time, 
When  the  voice  and  look  were  an  open  book, 

And  true  to  the  heart's  deep  chime; 
When  the  simple  prayer  that  was  uttered  there, 

In  the  calm,  still  hour  of  even, 
Though  the  words  on  earth  might  have  their  birth, 

The  thought  seemed  fresh  from  Heaven. 

Oh!  ne'er  may  it  die,  as  a  thought  gone  by, 

That  gleam  on  the  hearth-stone  free; 
But  aye  let  it  leap,  and  sparkle,  and  sweep 

'Round  the  heart  of  the  green-wood  tree. 
Forever  the  same  may  its  bright  broad  flame 

Shine  out  with  a  cheerful  blaze, 
And  around  it  still  fond  feelings  thrill, 

As  they  did  in  the  olden  days. 


164  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Pauline  A.  Bangs  was  the  wife  of  Josiah  I).  Bangs,  at  one  time  editor  and  publisher  of 
the  Sunday  Courier,  New  York  City.  She  was  the  daughter  of  John  and  Susan  Brooks 
of  Augusta,  Me.,  and  a  graduate  of  the  Congregational  Female  Academy.  Early  in  life 
she  exhibited  much  interest  in,  and  talent  for,  literary  work,  and  Avrote  not  a  little  for 
magazines  and  newspapers  as  a  regular  correspondent.  This  she  continued  to  do  long 
after  she  was  married.  In  1840.  she  wrote  regularly  for  the  Saturday  Courier,  Phila 
delphia,  Milhken  &  Holden,  publishers,  which  she  continued  to  do  for  a  number  of  years 
—mostly  short  poems  and  religious  articles— signing  "Ella,"  or  "Pauline."  She  also 
furnished  a  few  poems  for  the  Kennebec  Journal  as  early  as  5831  and  in  1843  for  the 
Franklin  Jiec/ister,  Farmington.  She  lived  nearly  all  her  life  in  Maine,  but  died  a  few 
years  ago  in  the  town  of  Kingston,  Wis.,  at  the  home  of  one  of  her  sons,  aged  70  years. 


TO    MYSTIC. 

Soft  mellow  August  is  with  us  once  more — 
Wild-flowers  and  sweet-scented  blossoms  appear; 

And  many  a  bright  little  warbler  doth  pour 
His  silvery  wood-note — but  thou  art  not  here! 

Low-sighing  breezes  the  branches  are  wooing — 
Flute-like  sounds  breathing,  our  spirits  to  cheer — 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance,  while  strewing 

The  sweet-scented  blossoms — but  thou,  art  not  here! 

Through  white  fleecy  clouds  the  bright  sun  is  beaming, 

Gladd'ning  in  silence  the  varying  year, 
And  waking  to  beauty  the  maple,  while  gleaming 

Through  its  shadowy  foliage— but  thou  art  not  here! 

The  green  mossy  banks  the  streamlets  are  kissing, 
And  charming  to  life  each  leaf  that  was  sere; 

Their  soft  murmurs  mind  me  of  one  that  is  missing — 
The  cherished,  the  loving — but  he  is  not  here! 

Thy  own  brilliant  skies  with  sunset  are  glowing; 

Thy  woods  ring  with  wild-song  so  silvery  clear, 
Even  tears  from  the  fount  of  affection  are  flowing, 

From  a  distant  home  calling  to  one  that  is  dear. 

Soft  accents  murmur  within  thy  lone  dwelling, 
And  thrill  through  this  heart  as  they  fall  on  my  ear; 

Their  young,  cheerful  notes,  so  joyfully  swelling, 
Make  this  lone  heart  more  lonely — since  thou  art  not  here! 

Yet,  while  thou  the  soft  scenes  of  pleasure  art  wooing, 
Bright  visions  of  Fancy  still  picture  thee  near; 

And  the  silence  of  slumber,  the  phantom  pursuing, 
Dispels  all  my  sorrows — for  then  thou  art  here! 


MATILDA  PARKER  CARTER.  165 


This  lady,  wife  of  Mr.  John  S.  Carter,  former  publisher  of  the  Eastern  Magazine,  the 
first  Maine  magazine,  and  daughter  of  the  late  Nathaniel  Parker,  Esq.,  was  born  and 
educated  in  the  valley  of  the  Penobscot.  Hampden  was  her  native  town,  where  she  first 
saw  the  light,  July  9,  1813.  She  died  at  the  early  age  of  23  years,  after  a  protracted  and 
distressing  illness  of  more  than  sixteen  months.  Through  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  M.  A. 
Laughton,  the  venerable  and  venerated  mother  of  Mrs.  Frances  L.  Mace,  the  now  cele 
brated  poetess,  we  have  been  favored  with  a  copy  of  the  Maine  Monthly  Magazine,  con 
taining  an  obituary  notice  of  Mrs.  Carter.  From  this  we  learn  that  this  young  writer 
was  not  a  precocious  child,  but  developed  rapidly  at  about  15  years  of  age.  While  not 
obtrusive  in  her  manners,  she  was  at  the  same  time  very  brilliant  in  conversation  when 
the  subject  interested  her.  She  was  not  only  literary  in  her  tastes,  but  her  mind  was 
able  to  take  hold  of  and  discuss  all  the  great  questions  of  the  day.  Poetry  was  her 
delight ;  and  what  she  has  left  of  her  own  composing,  sufficiently  evinces  that  she  early 
imbibed  the  very  soul  of  song.  Had  she  lived  to  the  full  maturi/y  of  her  powers,  and 
had  she  cultivated  her  mind  with  the  same  assiduity  she  did  while  her  health  remained 
unbroken,  she  must  have  attained  distinction  in  letters.  It  is  well  worth  remembering 
that  Mrs.  Carter  was  the  first  editress  of  the  first  Maine  magazine. 


LINES. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MY  HUSBAND  ON  OUR  BIRTHDAY. 

My  own,  another  year,  its  round 

Has  silent  gone; 
And  marked  of  joys  and  griefs  the  bound, 

As  it  has  flown — 
On  some  have  lowered  misfortune's  blight 

And  cold  earth's  frown: 
And  then — my  life — 'tis  not  all  night, 

I  am  thine  own. 

My  little  bark  of  life  was  cast 

Ten  years  behind, 
On  life's  broad  sea,  with  thine  to  be 

Tossed  by  the  wind, 
How  frail!  the  world's  deceitful  tide, 

To  meet  alone ! 
Thou  took'st  the  weak  one  to  thy  side, 

To  be  thine  own. 

And  I  will  be  thy  brightest  star, 

When  earth  is  light; 
And  mine  the  task,  dearer  by  far, 

In  sorrow's  night, 
To  soothe  thy  brow  of  care,  and  bring 

The  joys  of  hope, 
Or  songs  of  other  days  to  sing, 

To  cheer  thee  up. 

And  there  are  other  eyes  to  speak 

The  words  of  love, 
And  there's  another  voice,  how  sweet — 

Thine  own  eyes  prove ; 


166  THE  POETS  OF  MA  JNE. 


And  childhood's  joy  is  dancing  now, 

Upon  her  lips, 
Like  honey-bee  from  every  flower, 

The  sweets  she  sips. 

Then  is  life  all  a  blank  ?— O  no, 

I  feel  that  thou 
Wouldst  change  thy  lot  with  none; 

And  that  e'en  now 
The  past  with  cloudy  sky 

And  storms  has  flown; 
And  Hope,  thy  Babe  and  I 

Are  all  thine  own. 


WASHINGTON. 

' '  Washington  will  never  be  conquered."  "  "Why,"  inquired  his  companion.  "  Because," 
answered  the  old  man,  "  I  have  just  seen  him  in  the  woods  praying  ;  and  if  such  a  man 
as  Washington  prays,  he  must  be  invincible."—  Weems'  Life  of  Washington. 

He  stood  alone — o'er  the  chief  tan's  head 

No  banner  of  stars  was  waving; 
Nor  round  were  the  hosts  he  was  wont  to  lead, 
Where  clashed  the  arms,  and  the  battle  steed,- 

In  blood,  his  hoofs  were  laving. 

His  head  was  uncovered ;  and  near  him  there  laid 

The  sword,  for  his  country's  redeeming; 

And  the  winds  hushed  their  voice;  and  the  trees  o'er  his  head 
Laid  their  leaves  still,  and  quiet,  as  if  half  afraid 

To  wake  that  high  soul  from  its  dreaming. 

Where,  where  are  his  thoughts?  fora  startling  tear 

Down  the  cheek  of  the  warrior  is  stealing; 
Ah!  the  woes  of  his  country  have  called  it:  for  dear 
Is  his  land  to  the  soldier's  bosom,  and  drear 

Is  the  vision  the  future  revealing. 

Ah!  he  is  the  hope  of  his  country;  and  he 

Feels  a  mortal's  weakness  o'er  him, 
But  he  turns  to  his  God,  who  erst  through  the  sea 
Led  his  chosen,  and  feels  he  will  fight  for  the  free, 

And  the  Christian  is  kneeling  before  him. 

Hush!  hush — 'twas  the  zephyr:  no  voice  from  on  high 

The  stillness  of  nature  hath  broken; 
But  gratitude  now  claims  her  tear,  for  his  eye 
Is  fixed,  in  high  confidence  now,  on  the  sky, 
Which  hideth  the  presence  of  Him  who  passed  by, 

And  peace  to  his  spirit  hath  spoken. 


JOHN  B.  HAG UE. -CYRUS  A.  BA R TOL .  107 


Where,  where,  was  he  great?  on  the  red  battle-field, 
Where  "thousands  his  nod  were  obeying? 

Even  there,  for  there  victory  was  graved  on  his  shield; 

And  the  fate  of  his  country  in  glory  was  sealed, 
While  tyranny's  hosts  they  were  slaying. 

Yet  more!  he  was  glorious!  when  in  the  deep  glen, 

He  knelt  midst  the  shadows  of  even; 
And  cast  off  the  dark  world's  defilement  and  sin; 
While,  far  from  the  noise,  and  the  folly  of  men, 

He  communed  with  his  Father  in  Heaven. 


Rev.  John  B.  Hague,  pastor  for  ten  years  at  Eastport,  was  born  in  New  Rochelle,  N. 
Y.,  in  1813,  and  was  a  graduate  of  Hamilton  College,  in  the  class  of  1832.  He  pursued 
his  theological  studies  at  Newton,  graduating  in  1835.  His  ordination  took  place  at  East- 
port,  Me.,  where  he  remained  several  years,  as  above  stated.  He  has  devoted  the  larger 
part  of  his  life  to  teaching  young  ladies.  He  has  had  schools  in  Jamaica  Plain  and  New 
ton  Centre  for  six  years,  at  Hudson,  N.  Y.,  for  ten  years,  and  at  Hackensack,  N.  J.,  whence 
he  removed  in  1870,  and  where  he  still  resides. 


COME  TO  THE  SAVIOUR. 

O  thoughtless  and  gay  one,  where,  where  dost  thou  stray? 
Thy  footsteps  are  treading  destruction's  broad  way; 
The  world  hath  deceived  thee;  beware  of  its  art; 
Come  now  to  the  Saviour,  and  give  him  thy  heart. 

O  wandering  disciple,  where,  where  hast  thou  been? 
How  couldst  thou  return  to  thy  folly  and  sin? 
With  Christ  thy  Redeemer,  O  how  couldst  thou  part? 
Return  to  thy  Saviour,  and  give  him  thy  heart. 

O  weary  and  wounded  and  sin-burthened  soul, 
Wouldst  thou  of  thy  pain  and  thy  grief  be  made  whole — 
Have  relief  from  thine  anguish,  and  ease  from  thy  smart? 
Then  come  to  the  Saviour,  and  give  him  thy  heart. 

O  come,  one  and  all,  while  yet  there  is  room ; 
Christ  waits  to  be  gracious ;  he  bids  you  all  come. 
Blest  Jesus,  I  come,  with  thee  never  to  part, 
And  freely,  most  freely,  I  give  thee  my  heart. 


%  jjartoL 

Dr.  C.  A.  Bartol  was  born  in  Freeport,  April  30.  1813.  At  the  age  of  ten  he  removed 
with  his  parents  to  Portland,  where  he  attended  the  Grammar  and  High  Schools,  and  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  he  entered  Bowdoin  College.  On  his  graduation,  he  became  a  student 
in  the  Divinity  School  Cambridge,  and  at  the  expiration  of  his  theological  studies  began 
at  once  to  preach.  He  became  minister  at  large  in  Boston,  in  1836,  and  on  the  first  of 


168  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


March,  1837,  was  settled  at  West  Church,  as  colleague  with  Dr.  Charles  Lowell.  This 
pulpit  he  has  tilled  for  fifty  years,  and  the  semi-centennial  of  his  settlement  was  com 
memorated,  March  1,  1887.  Besides  the  special  and  abundant  labors  of  the  ministry,  he 
has  been  active  in  the  philanthropic  movements  of  the  day,  and  fruitful  in  literary  work 
having  given  to  the  press  several  volumes  of  sermons,  besides  pamphlet  discourses  and 
contributions  to  periodicals.  His  volume,  entitled  "  Secular  Religion,"  has  been  widely 
read  and  admired.  As  a  pastor  and  a  man,  he  has  the  high  respect  and  warm  affection  of 
his  people  and  the  public. 


WILD  ROSES. 

On  Nature's  clock  that  runs  a  year, 
Whose  hands  steal  on  to  strike  no  bell, 

Wild  roses  once  again  appear, 
Winsome  as  poets  cannot  tell. 

But  where  is  she  who  loved  these  flowers, 
For  whom  I  plucked  them  every  day? 

The  dial  numbers  all  her  hours ; 
What  is  their  charm,  her  bloom  away? 

Do  they  not  miss  their  steadfast  friend? 

Without  her,  on  each  lonely  stem, 
Their  fragrance  to  the  breeze  they  lend, 

Which  with  them  sings  her  requiem. 

In  vain  does  every  leafy  fold — 
My  once  fond  sacrifice — put  on 

Tints  ruddier  than  virgin  gold — 
The  sanctifying  temple  gone ! 

Better  than  Cain  or  Abel  brought, 
My  firstlings  from  the  ledgy  field; 

I  miss  the  punctual  shrine  I  sought : 
The  altar  sinks,  the  tomb  is  sealed. 

O  faithless  heart,  the  roses  say, — 
As  to  his  band,  the  master  said,— 

The  soul  in  dust  will  never  stay ! 
Have  we  not  risen  from  the  dead? 

Are  there  no  pastures  o'er  my  fence, 
Clearings  and  groves  I  cannot  spy? 

Far  as  may  go  this  glassy  sense, 
Untraveled  windeth  still  the  sky. 

Each  plant's  ascension  here  below 
Foreshows  full  paradise  above ; 

An  upper  spring  for  truth  we  sow, 
A  blossom  from  each  grain  of  love. 


C TR US  AUG US T US  BAR TOL,  1(>9 


ON  VISITING  MY  HOME  AFTER  FORTY  YEARS. 

Entranced  among  the  rocks  and  trees, 

I  wander  to  and  fro, 
In  sweet  oblivion  with  the  breeze 

And  forty  years  ago. 

My  birthplace  works  the  charm  of  power : 

Boyhood  alone  I  know; 
My  life  is  crowded  to  an  hour, 

'Tis  forty  years  ago. 

I  have  not  bought,  I  have  not  sold; 

Yet  breathes,  with  whisper  low; 
Wonder  newborn  from  stories  told 

Me  forty  years  ago. 

>TO  weight  I  feel  of  care  or  sin; 

My  sorrows  off  I  throw: 
Remorse  has  fled,  doubt  has  not  been;— 

'Tis  forty  years  ago. 

I  am  no  husband,  father-priest, 

No  rival  see,  nor  foe; 
I  sit  the  smallest  at  the  feast; 

'T  is  forty  years  ago. 

The  timid  thrush  sings  where  I  tread; 

Roses  fresh  welcome  blow, 
And  swing  their  censers  o'er  my  head, 

As  forty  years  ago. 

The  sea  and  sand,— the  brook,  the  shore, 

Hill-top  and  meadow  low, 
I  iind  no  atom  less  or  more 

Than  forty  years  ago. 

O'er  Alpine  pass,  through  halls  of  art, 

How  can  my  memory  flow, 
While  present  glory  fills  my  heart, 

From  forty  years  ago. 

O  maze  of  joy,  from  mates  at  play, 

Or  learning  in  a  row, 
War's  distant  thunder  rolls  away, 

With  forty  years  ago. 

Will  He  who  shines  through  all  life's  gloom, 

And  heightens  all  its  glow, 
In  dateless  heaven  not  find  some  room 

For  forty  years  ago? 


170  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE 


Well  has  it  been  said  of  this  man,  "  He  is  a  welcome  guest  at  every  fireside,  and  he  has 
a  name  which  will  be  a  tradition  where  he  has  lived."  Son  of  a  well-known  and  talented 
Clergyman  of  the  same  name.  Elijah  Avas  born  in  Portland,  May,  1813,  and  graduated  at 
Bowdoin  College  in  the  class  of  1840,  entering  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Andover, 
Mass,  where  he  graduated  in  1843.  an.l  was  ordained  pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church 
in  Harpswell.  He  was  afterwards  chaplain  of  the  Boston  Seaman's  Friend  Society,  and 
held  that  position  ten  years.  Resigning  that  office,  about  18fi5,  he  has  since  devoted  him 
self  for  the  most  part,  to  the  preparation  of  juvenile  works,  of  which  some  thirty  vol 
umes  have  been  issued,  mostly,  \ve  believe,  by  the  enterprising  firm  of  Lee  &  Shepard, 
Boston.  He  has  also  been  a  favorite  in  lyceum  lectures,  and  has  read  poems  at  the  anni 
versaries  of  literary  societies  in  various  States.  His  bronzed  and  earnest  face  attracts 
attention  wherever'il  is  seen,  and  although  he  has  reached  threescore  years  and  ten,  his 
step  is  still  elastic,  and  his  eyes  have  the  merry  twinkle  they  possessed  in  college  days. 
His  labors  in  the  ministry  are  still  bearing  fruit  in  Harpswell,  Rockport,  Mass.,  and 
other  places.  A  sailor  before  he  fitted  for  college,  and  cherishing  peculiar  attachments 
for  the  sea  and  seamen  he  had  singular  qualifications  for  the  Avork  of  his  chaplaincy. 
Mr.  Kellogg  married  a  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  Thaddeus  Pomeroy  of  Gorham,  and  has 
three  children. 

PORTLAND. 

Still  may  I  love,  beloved  of  thoo, 

My  own  fair  city  of  the  sea! 

Where  moulders  back  to  kindred  dust 

The  mother  who  my  childhood  nurst, 

And  strove,  with  ill-requited  toil, 

To  till  a  rough,  ungrateful  soil; 

Yet  kindly  spired  by  Heaven  to  know 

That  Faith's  reward  is  sure,  though  slow. 

And  see  the  prophet's  mantle  grace 

The  rudest  scion  of  her  race. 

And  while  n round  thy  seaward  shore 

The  Atlantic  doth  its  surges  pour, 

(Those  verdant  isles,  thy  bosom-gems,) 

May  Temples  be  thy  diadems; 

Spire  after  spire  in  beauty  rise. 

Still  pointing  upward  to  the  ski.  - 

Vnwritten  sermons,  and  rebukes  of  love, 

To  point  thy  toiling  throngs  to  worlds  above. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  DEMOX  OF  THE  SEA. 

Ah !  tell  me  not  of  your  shady  dells, 
Where  the  lilies  gleam  and  the  fountain  wells, 
Where  the  reaper  rests  when  his  task  is  o'er, 
And  the  lake-wave  sobs  on  the  verdant  shore, 
And  the  rustic  maid  with  a  heart  all  free, 
Hies  to  the  well-known  trysting-tree ; 


EL1JA II  KELLOGG. 


For  I'm  the  god  of  the  rolling  sea, 

And  the  charms  of  earth  are  nought  to  me. 

O'er  the  thundering  chime  of  the  breaking  surge, 

On  the  lightning's  wing  my  course  I  urge, 

On  thrones  of  foam  right  joyous  ride 

'Mid  the  sullen  dash  of  the  angry  tide. 

I  hear  ye  tell  of  music's  power, 

The  rapture  of  a  sigh, 
When  beauty  in  her  wizard  bower 

Unveils  her  languid  eye. — 
Ye  never  knew  the  infernal  fire, 
The  withering  curse,  the  scorching  ire, 
That  rages,  maddens  in  the  breast 
Of  him  who  rules  the  billow's  crest. 
Heard  ye  that  last  despairing  yell 
That  wailed  Creation's  funeral  knell, 
When  young  and  old,  the  vile,  the  brave, 
Were  circled  in  one  common  grave? 

While  on  my  car  of  driving  foam 
By  moaning  whirlwinds  sped, 

O'er  what  wan  joyous  earth  I  roam, 

And  trample  on  the  dead. 
This  is  the  music  that  my  ear 

Thrills  with  stern  ecstasy  to  hear! 

I  love  to  view  some  lonely  bark, 

The  sport  of  storms,  the  lightning's  mark, 

Scarce  struggling  through  the  freshening  wave 

That  foams  and  yawns  to  be  her  grave! 
I  saw  a  son  and  father  fight 

For  a  drifting  spar  their  lives  to  save; 

The  son  he  throttled  his  father  gray, 

And  tore  the  spar  from  his  clutch  away, 

Till  he  sank  beneath  the  wave; 
And  deemed  it  were  a  noble  sight. 

I  saw  upon  a  shattered  wreck 

All  swinging  at  the  tempest's  beck, 

A  mother  lone,  whose  frenzied  eye 

Wandered  in  hopeless  agony 

O'er  that  vast  plain  where  nought  was  seen, 

The  ocean  and  the  sky  between, 

And  there  all  buried  to  the  breast 

In  the  hungry  surf  that  round  her  prest— 

With  feeble  arms,  in  anguish  wild, 

High  o'er  her  head  she  raised  her  child, 

Endured  of  winds  and  waves  the  strife, 

To  add  a  unit  to  its  life. 


172  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


nnitt  (^nr        fcthe. 


The  name  of  Eunice  Gary  Blake  should  be  enrolled  among  those  whose  pen  has  given 
pleasure  to  many.  Born  at  Otisfield,  Nov.  5,  1813,  her  early  days  were  passed  amid  those 
rural  scenes  which  were  best  calculated  to  awaken  arid  cherish  a  poetic  spirit.  Her  edu 
cation  and  training  were  of  the  best.  Her  father's  house  was  the  resort  of  the  most  cul 
tivated  men  and  women  of  the  vicinage,  and  her  youthful  mind  received  impressions 
which  resulted  in  the  upbuilding  of  a  character  which  was  a  continual  joy  unto  itself,  to 
say  nothing  of  its  effect  upon  others.  Few  fragments  of  her  early  writings  remain.  As 
she  advanced  in  years  and,  in  a  new  sphere,  began  a  life  which  was  a  prolonged  ministry 
to  others,  her  productions  assumed  a  deeply  religious  tone.  Her  pen  was  rarely  idle,  yet 
she  Avas  seldom  suited  with  its  results  ;  the  spirit  which  animated  the  following  conclud 
ing  stanza  of  one  of  her  poems,  could  never  be  content  with  anything  short  of  perfection, 
and  when,  in  April,  1887,  her  earthly  cares  were  laid  aside,  it  was  with  the  confident  hope 
that  henceforth  her  poetic  longings  would  be  satisfied. 


THANKS— AN  ACROSTIC. 

Father,  we  thank  Thee  for  the  glorious  light, 
Each  morning  new,  and  for  the  sacred  night, 
Showing  Thy  love  in  planet,  moon,  and  star, 
Swiftly  reflected,  mirrored  thus  afar; 
Even  so  Thine  attributes,  all  wise  and  good, 
Never  are  seen,  never  so  understood, 
Devoutly  felt,-  as  when  some  master  mind, 
Earnest  to  bless  and  succor  all  mankind , 
Nearest  reflects  Thy  goodness  unconfined. 


ORDINATION  HYMN. 

KUNG   AT  THE   ORDINATION   OF   EEV.  GEORGE   LEON   WALKER   IN    1858. 

Bless,  O  Lord,  thy  youthful  servant, — 

At  Thy  call  he  waiting  stands, 
Consecrated,  ready,  earnest, 

To  fulfil  Thy  last  commands. 

Trusting  in  the  sweet  assurance 

Thou  wilt  be  his  strength  and  stay; 
Can  he  fear  when  Thou  hast  promised 

Thou  with  him  wilt  be  alway? 

Bless  each  crystal  drop  he  sprinkles, 

When  baptismal  vows  are  said; 
Show  Thyself,  Redeemer,  Saviour, 

When  he  breaks  the  mystic  bread. 

Touch  his  lips  with  fire  celestial, 

To  his  teachings,  truly  wise, 
Win  the  weary,  heavy-laden, 

To  the  rest  of  Paradise. 


ISRAEL   WASHBURN.  173 


Was  born  in  Liver  more,  Ate.,  June  6,  1813,  and  died  in  Philadelphia,  May  12,  1883. 
His  early  education  was  obtained  at  the  public  schools,  but  after  his  fourteenth  year  he 
was  in  charge  of  private  tutors  at  home.  He  studied  law,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1834,  and  practiced  with  fair  success  in  Orono,  Me.  During  the  years  1842-50,  he  served 
in  the  State  Legislature,  and  in  1850  was  elected  to  Congress  as  a  Whig.  He  was 
re-elected  in  1852,  1854,  1856,  and  1858.  He  served  in  Congress  continuously  from  Dec.  1 , 
1851,  to  Jan.  1,  1861,  when  he  resigned,  having  been  elected  the  year  previous  Governor 
of  Maine.  He  was  re-elected  in  1861,  but  declined  a  third  term.  Subsequently  he  was 
appointed  Collector  of  Customs  at  Portland,  Me.,  and  removed  to  that  city.  He  pub 
lished,  in  1874,  "Notes  Historical,"  etc.,  of  Liverrnore,  Me. 


TO  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

ON   HIS    SEVENTIETH   BIRTHDAY. 

Bard  of  the  triple  crown!  'twas  thine 
To  move  men  by  heroic  strains — 

In  loving  hate,  and  wrath  divine- 
To  rend  the  hapless  bondman's  chains. 

Thy  earnest  heart  no  resting  knew, 
War's  crime  and  waste  bespoke  thee,  then; 

Thy  song,  as  angel  voices  true, 
Was  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

But  chief  thy  muse's  theme  we  find 
In  grander,  sweeter  notes,  which  tell 

Of  broader  hopes  for  human  kind, 
And  bank  the  lurid  fires  of  hell. 


TO  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

ON    HIS    SEVENTY-FIFTH   BIRTHDAY. 
SUGGESTED    BY   THE    POEM,    "  MY    LOST   YOUTH." 

They  err  who  say  the  poet  dies, 

Or  suffers  foul  eclipse : 
Old  age  is  never  in  his  eyes, 

Nor  palsy  on  his  lips. 

Nature,  and  love,  and  truth,  and  faith, 
Know  no  black,  biting  frost; 

The  poet  feels  no  bated  breath, 
His  youth  is  never  lost. 


174  777 K  I'OETti  OF  MAJNK. 


(fdwmd 


Edward  Payson  was  born  in  Portland,  Sept.  14,  ISl.'i,  M  son  of  the  eminent  Rev.  Dr. 
-hdward  Payson.  The  first  thirteen  years  after  graduation  from  Bowdoin  were  spent  in 
a  Southern  State,  where  he  studied  and  practiced  law.  and  also,  a  part  of  the  time 
employed  himself  in  teaching.  He  then  returned  to  his  Northern  home,  gave  up  the  pro 
fession,  to  which  he  had  never  been  nineh  attached,  and  settled  on  a  farm  in  Westhrook 
UH>\V  Deering)  Where  he  has  since  lived,  ivisiininir  a  desk  in  his  son's  office  at  Portland. 


entitled  "Doctor  Tom."     He  has  two  sons,  both  {graduates  of  Ilowdoin,  and  both  mem  hers 
of  the  Cumberland  Bar. 

NEW  AND  OLD  GRIEF. 

The  storm  is  o'er,  the  tempest  now  is  past, 
Repentant  smoothness  holds  the  silent  sea, 
And,  leaning  here  against  the  broken  mast, 
I  feel  it  lap  the  ship's  side  soothingly. 

In  lazy,  graceful,  undulating  fold, 
Far,  far  away,  it  spreads  its  glassy  sheen, 
And  save  when  laggard  rope  lets  go  its  hold, 
And  slowly  sways  the  splintered  spar  between; 

No  motion  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  air, 
But  silenee  reigns  supreme.     At  boatswain's  call, 
No  more  the  sailor  climbs  the  hempen  stair, 
Nor  mans  the  yard,  nor  tightens  slackened  fall. 

Caring  but  little  what  foul  wind  may  blow, 
The  tattered  sails  are  hanging  all  athwart; 
The  useless  cordage  seems  to  know  'tis  so, 
And  no  more  gives,  but  rather  seeks  support. 

O  this  dull  calm,  this  sober  realm  of  grief, 
How  worse  by  far  than  tempest's  liercest  blast; 
Ye  winds,  ye  waves,  come  back  to  my  relief, 
Take  these  blank  hours,  and  give  me  back  the  past. 


TO  THE  "MONARCH"  ON  LEAVING  PORTLAND  HARBOR.* 

Proud  ship,  thou  bear'st  a  kingly  name, 

All  fairly  won;  thine  the  renown 

Which  wears  no  perishable  crown; 
And  from  henceforth— secure  thy  fame 


*The  Monarch  brought  home  the  remains  of  Mr.  George  Peabody    the  philanthropist 
proper  ceremonies  being  observed  on  that  occasion. 


ISRAEL  PE&KIN8   WARREN.  175 


Though  kingdoms  perish — men  shall  bring 

A  willing  homage  unto  thee; 

And,  through  all  strifes,  shall  still  agree 
In  this — her  praise  and  thine  to  sing; 

llc.r  praise — the  honored,  widowed  Queen 
Who  on  such  errand  sent  thee  here; 
And  thine — since  never  ship  did  steer 

On  lordlier  quest,  since  time  has  been. 

Whose  quarrel's  just — thrice  armed  he — 
Thrice  armed  thou,  whose  bulwarked  walls, 
Of  iron  and  of  oak,  were  all 

In  vain,  but  that  belongs  to  thee 

That  stronger  strength,  that  nobler  pride, 
Which,  ne'er  the  gift  of  skill  or  art, 
Flow  ever  full  from  Saxon  hearts, 

But  not  in  iron  or  oak  reside. 

And  so,  God  bless  thee.     As  thy  keel 
Once  more  attempts  the  tossing  main, 
And  thy  strong  pulse  shall  stir  again 

At  thoughts  of  home,  may  hooks  of  steel, 

Wrought  out  of  this  propitious  day, 
Bind  us  in  one,  your  land  and  ours, 
And  so  be  proved  of  love  the  power, 

Till  sea  and  land  shall  pass  away; 

So,  shoulder-fastened,  each  fit  mate 
For  other,  we  our  race  will  run, 
Till  craped  earth,  and  darkened  sun, 

Old  Time's  Death-spousals  celebrate. 


Dr.  Warren,  editor  of  The  ('/>rist,irni.  Mirror,  Portland,  with  which  he  became  con 
nected  in  1875,  was  born  at  Bethany,  Conn.,  April  8,  1814,  and  graduated  at  Yale  College, 
in  1838.  He  has  tilled  many  offices  of  responsibility,  has  conducted  the  publication  of 
various  newspapers  and  magazines,  and  is  the  author  of  several  valuable  books.  He 
served  eleven  years  in  charge  of  the  publication  department  of  the  American  Tract 
Society  of  Boston,  and  brought  out  several  works  specially  in  the  interest  of  the  Freed- 
men.  "The  Picture  Lesson-Book,"  isfil,  designed  for  the  use  of  the  refugee  slaves  in 
the  camps,  is  believed  to  be  the  first  hook  ever  printed  for  the  special  benefit  of  that 
class.  Dr.  Warren  has  also  written  several  biographies  and  the  genealogy  of  the  Stan 
ley  family. 


176  THE  POETS  t)F  MAINE. 


THE  MODERN  NEWSPAPER. 

EXTRACT   FROM    A   POEM   DELIVERED    BEFORE    THE    MAINE    PRESS 
ASSOCIATION,   1879. 

Growth  of  four  centuries  of  thought  and  skill 
Since  that  great  day,  upon  the  banks  of  111, 
When  Gutenberg,  with  little  thought  of  fame, 
Carved  out  in  type  his  gentle  Anna's  name; 
Now  sprea'd  abroad  o'er  nations  far  and  wide, 
Man's  many- voiced  companion,  teacher,  guide, 
Fraught  with  the  lore  of  all  the  ages  past — 
Each  generation  wiser  than  the  last — 
The  mightiest  kings  its  warning  words  attend; 
The  humblest  peasant  finds  in  it  a  friend ; 
No  wit  so  gay,  no  oracle  so  sage, — 
The  sceptred  sovereign  of  the  present  age. 
Up  yonder  stairs,  remote  from  idling  men, 
Behold  the  sanctum  of  the  types  and  pen. 
Two  dingy  pictures  grace  the  dingier  wall, 
Twelve  ancient  cobwebs  from  the  ceiling  fall; 
Tables  and  chairs  stand  round  in  disarray  > 
Strewn  with  the  various  journals  of  the  day; 
The  desk  with  piles  of  manuscript  o'erspread, 
Books  and  reviews  still  waiting  to  be  read, 
Paste-pot  and  scissors  smeared  with  inky  stains, 
Sometimes  an  editor's  chief  stock  of  brains, 
A  well-thumbed  Webster  lying  on  the  floor, 
And  a  waste-basket  full  and  running  o'er, — 
Hither  the  master  thoughtfully  ascends, 
And  to  his  wonted  task  assiduous  bends. 
****** 

Types  were  regarded  once  with  faith  devout; 
The  saying,  "True  as  print,"  dispelled  all  doubt. 
What  change,  alas,  in  modern  times  succeeds! 
'Tis  now,  "One  nothing  knows  by  what  he  reads." 
To-day  the  papers  say  the  Pope  is  dead; 
To-morrow,  that  he's  only  sick-a-bed; 
The  next  day,  that  he's  not  been  sick  at  all, — 
'T  was  but  a  hoax  to  cause  the  funds  to  fall. 
In  politics,  especially,  we  see 
How  strangely  facts  and  statements  disagree. 
,  Look  o'er  the  land, — show  me  the  public  man 
Who  e'er  for  office  or  employment  ran, 
Whose  every  action,  motive,  sentiment, 
The  party  press  does  not  misrepresent. 
Show  me  a  thing  one  party  strives  to  do, 


ISRAEL  PERKINS   WARREN.  177 

One  public  measure,  either  old  or  new, 

Which  its  opponents  do  not  brand  as  evil, 

A  plot  and  instigation  of  the  devil. 

Once  on  a  time,  two  politicians  sat 

Discussing,  pro  and  con,  affairs  of  state; 

Some  project  of  the  government  just  then 

Was  making  much  excitement  among  men. 

One  was  defending  it,  as  partisans  do, 

The  other  cursing  it  and  Congress  too; 

Each  to  his  favorite  newspaper  referred, 

To  prove  on  its  authority  his  word. 

This  only  to  the  strife  new  food  supplied, 

Each  said  the  other's  dirty  paper  lied; 

Nay,  that  the  party  which  each  sheet  sustained 

With  fraud  and  falsehood  through  and  through  was  stained. 

At  last,  to  end  the  quarrel,  waxing  high, 

They  asked  an  honest  farmer,  standing  by, 

For  his  opinion.     With  a  Yankee  oath, 

"I  vum,"  he  answered,  "1  believe  you  both!" 

Next,  all  their  readers  will  agree,  I'm  sure, 

These  printed  pages  should  be  ever  pure. 

Why  should  a  virgin  sheet  so  fair  and  white 

Come  from  the  types  all  foul  with  moral  blight, 

With  innuendoes  and  suggestions  reek, 

Forcing  a  blush  on  innocency's  cheek? 

Why  gather  up  the  filth  of  city  slums, 

And  pour  the  sewage  into  all  our  homes? 

Why  haunt  the  purlieus  of  our  courts  and  jails, 

For  stuff  to  fashion  into  ribald  tales? 

Why  in  emblazoned  type  spread  all  abroad 

Each  hideous  crime  of  cruelty  and  blood, 

Of  arson,  burglary,  and  theft,  and  rape, 

In  every  vile,  disgusting  mode  and  shape? 

What  are  all  such  but  lessons  that  we  frame 

To  teach  the  young  the  ways  of  sin  and  shame? 

Tell  how  some  skilful  burglar  picked  a  lock ; 

Describe  his  tools,  punch,  jimmy,  bit,  and  stock; 

Show  how  some  faithless  clerk  contrived  to  steal 

By  a  false  check  or  counterfeited  seal, — 

To  many  a  rogue  it  will  a  challenge  be 

To  be  as  smart,  and  get  as  much  as  he. 

'T  is  true,  you  may  give  vice  its  real  name, 

May  warn  of  all  its  danger,  sin  and  shame ; 

The  allurement,  still,  before  him  he  will  set, 

The  crime  remember, — your  advice  forget, 

Think  this  short  way  to  gain  he  may  pursue, 


178  TlIK  POKTX  OF  MAINE. 


And  if  'tis  guilt,  it's  gilt  without  the  u. 

Bear  with  me  still.     Nor  truth,  nor  purity 
Alone  can  make  the  Press  what  it  should  be. 
There  is  a  character  which  all  commend, 
In  which  all  pleasing  traits  harmonious  blend. 
Speech,  dress,  and  manners,  graceful  and  refined, 
Reveal  the  kindly  heart,  the  cultured  mind, 
That  make  the  gentleman,  God's  noblest  work, 
In  whom  no  covert  vices  meanly  lurk. 
Let  us  transfer  this  personal  quality, 
And  say  the  Press  should  gentlemanly  be. 
What  though  your  envious  rival  o'er  the  way 
Assails  with  coarseness  everything  you  say, 
Do  not,  in  turn,  with  aspect  fierce  and  grim, 
Disgrace  yourself  in  trying  to  blacken  him, 
Threaten  his  dastard  blood  forthwith  to  spill, 
Like  the  famed  editors  of  Eatanswill. 
If  that  notorious  slanderer,  common  fame, 
Breathes  calumny  against  some  good  man's  name, 
Be  not  too  swift  to  credit  it  at  first, 
And  of  two  motives  charge  him  with  the  worst. 
In  grave  discussions  of  both  things  and  men 
Let  courtesy  and  fairness  guide  your  pen ; 
Your  diction  pure,  by  no  false  taste  beguiled, 
Drawn  from  the  well  of  English  undefiled, 
Avoiding  slang,  that  leprosy  of  speech, 
And  fraught  with  sense  in  all  you  say  and  teach, 
Worthy  in  language  and  in  thought  to  mould 
The  words  and  sentiments  of  young  and  old. 

May  I  say  one  thing  more?     The  Press  should  be 
The  fearless  champion  of  morality. 
Let  it  not  give  its  columns  to  defend 
Whate'er  is  false,  whate'er  is  base  befriend. 
Let  it  inculcate  honesty  in  trade, 
Denouncing  frauds  of  every  sort  and  shade ; 
Insisting  on  fidelity  to  trust, 
On  laws  humane,  impartial,  wise,  and  just, 
Scorning  the  demagogue's  insidious  tricks, 
Who  boasts  that  all  is  fair  in  politics, 
And  makes  his  way  where  low  ambitions  call, 
As  venomed  serpents  wriggle,  hiss,  and  crawl. 
Let  it  guard  well  the  sanctity  of  home, 
Where  strife  and  jealousy  should  never  come, 
And  brand  a  villain  of  the  deepest  dye 
Him  who  corrupts  a  woman's  purity. 


CHARLES   WOOD  UPHAM.  179 


Let  it  not  shrink  to  teach  man  lias  a  soul ; 
That  sense  and  show  are  not  of  life  the  whole, 
That  virtue's  aims  the  noblest  joys  impart, 
That  the  best  treasure  is  an  honest  heart, 
The  happiest  man  is  he,  to  virtue  given, 
Who  walks  beneath  the  conscious  smile  of  Heaven, 
Whose  days  grow  brighter  as  his  years  increase, 
And  life's  last  evening  sets  in  cloudless  peace. 

You  say  I  preach;  what  else  should  you  expect 
If  you  a  preacher-poet  do  elect? 
Let  him,  for  once,  enjoy  the  occasion -rare, — 
A  congregation  where  no  sinners  are, — 
Who  know  but  little  of  the  faults  he  paints, 
Even  if  a  few  are  not  precisely  saints ! 
Such  may  the  Press  of  Maine  forever  be, 
Guardian  of  truth,  of  right,  of  purity, 
True  to  the  proud  "Dirigo"  of  her  shield, 
Leading  her  sister  States  in  every  field. 
May  all  her  Journal*  faithfully  record 
Whate'er  is  best  in  act  and  thought  and  word; 
Her  Farmers  sow  good  seeds  in  fruitful  soil, 
And  reap  rich  harvests  for  their  care  and  toil; 
The  State's  bright  fortunes  fill  her  Chronicles, 
Better  than  those  the  ancient  record  tells ; 
Her  Press  and  Argus  guard  her  chief est  port, 
Like  the  twin  bastions  of  a  well-armed  fort; 
Her  Transcript  be,  as  now,  far  in  the  van ; 
Her  Democrat  a  good  Republican ; 
And  thy  bright  radiance  such,  O  polar  Star, 
That  none  again  need  "wonder  what  you  are." 
These,  and  all  others,  whether  small  or  great, 
That  make  the  "Press"  of  our  beloved  State, 
Like  gems  that  in  the  firmament  appear, 
A  constellation  be,  serene  and  clear. 
Then  to  whatever  side  her  Mirror  turns, 
Its  face  shall  catch  the  light  from  golden  urns ; 
Naught  false,  impure,  corrupting,  shall  it  see, 
And  only  pleasing  its  reflections  be.    . 


§plf;nn. 


Son  of  Timothy  Upliam,  Esq.,  of  Portsmouth,  N.  H.  ;  was  born  Sept.  9,  1814.  and 
received  his  name,  in  part,  in  memory  of  a  gallant  friend  of  his  father—  Lieut.  Col.  Wood, 
of  the  Engineers—  who  was  killed  near  General  Upharn,  at  the  sortie  from  West  Erie. 
In  1829,  young  Upharn  entered  the  Freshman  Class  in  liowdoin  College,  and  shortly  after 
selected  the  Christian  ministry  as  his  profession.  While  in  college,  he  maintained  a 


1*0  27/1?  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


high  rank  in  his  class,  distinguishing  himself  particularly  as  a  writer,  and  gained  the  last 
ing  esteem  of  all.  At  the  close  of  his  Sophomore  year,  he  left  college  to  become  an 
assistant  in  a  large  female  seminary  in  Canamlaigua,  N.  Y.  In  the  autumn  of  1832 
by  the  upsetting  of  a  stage,  he  sustained  an  injury  of  the  spine,  which,  though  not  per 
ceived  at  the  time,  shortly  after  occasioned  a  severe  illness,  and  rendered  the  whole  resi 
due  of  his  life  a  period  of  weakness  and  intense  suffering.  Most  of  his  poems  were  writ 
ten  at  about  the  age  of  eighteen  years,  and  found  their  way  into  the  public  prints  after 
his  decease.  He  died  in  December,  1834. 


ANDRE. 

Beside  liis  path  the  beauteous  Hudson  rolled 
In  silent  majesty.     The  silvery  mist, 
Like  the  soft  incense  of  an  eastern  fane, 
Went  sparkling  upward,  gloriously  wreathing 
In  the  sunlight.     And  the  keen-eyed  eagle, 
From  his  high  aerie  mid  the  crags,  looked  down 
In  majesty,  where  stood  the  lonely  one, 
In  silence,  musingly — 

"Would  it  were  thus 

With  me.     My  spirit  shares  not  now,  as  wont, 
In  the  wild  majesty  of  nature  here. 
Methinks  there  is  some  weight  within,  sinking 
My  better  thoughts.    Would  now  that  I  might  lead 
Some  gallant  battle  charge— where  the  wild  trump 
Enkindles  valor,  and  the  free  winds  swell 
My  country's  banner." 

******* 

It  was  a  lowly  room ; 

And  the  stern,  heavy  tread,  that  by  the  door 
Went  to  and  fro,  told  it  the  captive's  cell. 
And  he  was  there;  the  same,  with  his  high  brow, 
And  soul-disclosing  eye; — and  he  was  doomed: — 
But  on  his  face  a  smile  seemed  gathering, 
And  the  fixed  gaze  marked  that  a  wakeful  dream 
Had  borne  him  far  away.     And  now  he  saw 
His  father's  home,  in  its  old  stateliness, 
Amid  the  bending  trees;  and  the  bright  band 
Of  his  young  sisters,  with  their  voices  gay, 
Echoing  there,  like  some  glad  melody. 
And  then  another  form,  bewildering 
Each  thought,  came  rising  up  in  peerless  grace, 
But  dimly  seen,  like  forms  which  sleep  creates. 
His  breath  grew  quicker,  and  his  only  thought 
Dwelt  upon  her,  as  seen  in  that  last  hour, — 
Her  full  dark  eye  on  his,  and  the  closed  lip 
Just  quivering  with  a  tender  smile,  with  which 
The  proud  young  thing  would  veil  her  parting  grief, 
And  check  her  trembling  voice,  that  did  outsteal, 


JAMES  UP  HAM.  181 


Like  witching  tones  upborne  upon  the  wind 

Of  summer  night— telling  of  her  high  trust. 

But  suddenly  a  change  was  on  his  face, 

And  then  he  paced  the  room  in  agony 

At  one  dark  thought.     'T  was  not  that  he  must  die; 

But  that  he  should  not  die  a  soldier's  death: 

Alas,  and  shall  she  hear  it,  that  bright  one 

That  ever  saw  him  in  her  dreams  rise  up 

Like  the  young  eagle  to  the  sun? 

******* 

The  morning  came, 

And  he  stood  up  to  die; — the  beautiful 
And  brave — the  loved  one  of  a  sunny  home- 
To  die  as  felons  die ; — yet  proudly  calm, 
With  his  high  brow  unmoved.     And  the  full  soul 
Beamed  in  his  eye  uncoiiquered,  and  his  lip 
Was  motionless,  as  is  the  forest  leaf 
In  the  calm  prelude  to  the  storm.     He  died ; 
And  the  stern  warriors,  to  his  country  foes, 
Wept  for  his  fate.     And  who,  that  e'er  had  hopes, 
Weeps  not  for  him,  meeting  such  misery 
In  glory's  path? 


jtyhum. 


All  the  Uphams  in  North  America  are  descendants  of  John  Upham,  born  in  England 
in  1597  ;  came  to  this  country  in  1635  ;  settled  first  in  Weymouth,  Mass.,  and  a  few  years 
later  in  Maiden,  as  one  of  its  founders.  His  gravestone  is  still  to  be  seen  there.  Prof. 
James  Upham  was  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  Jan.  23, 1815,  being  son  of  Dea.  Joshua  Upham, 
for  forty  years  deacon  of  the  First  Baptist  Church  in  that  city.  James  was  fitted  1'or  col 
lege  by  a  three  years'  course  in  the  famous  Salem  Latin  Grammar  School ;  entered  Water- 
ville  College,  now  Colby  University,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  ;  the  first  term,  was  converted, 
and  baptized  in  the  Kennebec ;  graduated  in  1835.  The  fall  after  graduating,  he  took 
charge,  as  principal,  of  the  Farmington  Academy.  During  the  second  year,  his  health 
seriously  failed,  and  he  returned  home.  He  never  fully  recovered  his  health.  It 
having  at  length  somewhat  improved,  he  went  to  Newton,  and  spent  several  months  in 

General  reading,  and  in  studying  German  and  the  Latin  Fathers,  under  Prof.  Barney 
ears,  and  entered  the  seminary  in  the  fall  of  1837.  During  his  Senior  year,  he  left,  with 
out  graduating,  to  accept  a  professorship  in  the  Baptist  Theological  Institution,  Thom- 
aston,  Me.  Finding  the  Institution  had  no  adequate  basis,  nor  was  likely  to  have,  he 
resigned  in  January,  1842,  and  became  successively  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  Church, 
Manchester,  N.  H.,'  and  of  the  Baptist  Church  in  Millbury,  Mass.  In  1845,  he  accepted  a 
professorship  in  the  theological  department  of  the  New  Hampton  Literary  and  Theologi 
cal  Institution,  at  first  located  in  New  Hampton,  N.  H.,  and  subsequently  in  Fairfax,  Vt. 
He  retained  his  professorship— including  also  the  presidency  for  the  last  five  years— 
from  1845  to  the  close  of  1866.  For  a  number  of  years  he  had  also  sole  charge  of  the 
Latin  and  Greek  in  the  Literary  Department.  In  December,  1866,  he  came  to  Boston,  as 
editor  of  the  Watchman  and  Reflector,  now  The  Watchman,  retaining  the  office  until 
1876.  In  1877,  he  became  associate  editor  of  the  Religious  Herald,  Richmond,  Va.,  and 
Health  editor  of  the  Youth's  Companion,  Boston.  The  former  position  he  resigned  in 
1883  ;  the  latter  he  still  retains.  Prof.  Upham  has  written  in  all,  including  occasional 
communications,  in  prose  and  poetry,  nearly  three  thousand  articles.  His  public  work 
divides  itself  into  three  portions, — pastoral,  for  three  years  ;  educational,  for  twenty- 
four,  and  editorial  for  twenty-one  ;  the  last  still  continuing. 


182  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  FIRST  SMILE. 

O  ray  divine,  pure  gleam  of  love, 
Like  glimpse  of  glory  from  above, 
Sweet,  blessed  smile,  my  baby's  first— 
'Tis  morning  out  of  darkness  burst! 

Now  is  the  bliss  the  mother  knows; 
Now  at  full  tide  affection  flows; 
At  length  I  feel,  and  ever  will, 
My  inmost,  deepest  being  thrill. 

Now  conscious  union  has  begun;. 
Henceforth  our  spirits  shall  be  one; 
My  clearest  Lord  the  type  shall  be — 
"Thou  art  in  me  and  I  in  thee." 

Baby,  I'd  make  thy  life  all  smile; 
Ward  off  all  woe;  each  care  beguile; 
And,  as  we  go  the  way  along, 
Would  have  thee  overflow  with  song. 

And  as  for  me,  I  ask  but  this, 
To  find  my  blessings  in  thy  bliss,— 
Thy  bliss  a  fountain  deep  within, 
Unclogged  with  earth,  unstained  with  sin. 

But,  darling,  I  now  ask  too  much; 
The  "life  to  come"  ne'er  comes  to  such; 
Not  hopes  alone  our  lot,  but  fears; 
Not  always  smiles,  but  often  tears. 

Thy  highest  bliss  will  be  to  bless- 
To  help  the  weak,  relieve  distress, 
The  lost  bring  back,  the  fallen  raise, 
To  do  God's  will  in  all  thy  ways. 

Then,  when  at  last  thy  Lord  shall  call, 
He  still  will  be  thy  all-in-all; 
And  so,  henceforth,  all  smile  and  love, 
Shall  be  thy  life  in  climes  above. 


THE  LIFE  TO  COME. 

To  the  grave  my  feet  long  tending, 
Now,  at  length,  are  near  the  ending. 
They  who  linger,  oh!  how  few, 
Dearly  loved,  and  loving,  too. 


JOHN  BAB  SON  LANE  SOULE.  183 

Less  the  partings,  more  the  meetings; 
Less  the  farewells,  more  the  greetings— 
This  is  now  the  prospect  here, 
Looking  toward  the  heavenly  sphere. 

Most  who  helped  life's  load  to  lighten, 
And  its  many  pathways  brighten, 
Stand  upon  the  further  shore, 
Waiting  for  my  coming  o'er. 

They  whose  lives  have  been  the  longest, 
And  whose  loves  have  been  the  strongest, 
Shall,  at  length,  think  most  of  meeting, 
Where  no  farewell  follows  greeting. 

Oh!  the  friendships  of  forever, 
Marred  by  sin  and  sorrow  never, 
Which  my  faith  beholds  above, 
In  the  native  clime  of  love. 


John  B.  L.  Soule,  a  native  of  Freeport,  Me.,  the  youngest  son  of  Dea.  Moses  Soule, 
was  born  April  4, 1815.  He  prepared  tor  college  at  Phillips  Exeter  Academy,  N.  H.,  and 
graduated  at  Bowdoin  in  1840.  He  completed  a  course  of  law  studies,  but  never  entered 
upon  the  practice.  After  ten  years  engaged  in  teaching  in  Maine  and  Indiana,  he  spent 
several  years  as  a  journalist  in  a  "Western  city.  Having  for  some  time  held  a  license  as  a 
minister  of  the  gospel,  he  gave  himself  to  that  work  in  charge  of  churches  in  Indiana, 
Wisconsin  and  Illinois.  Elected  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  in  Blackburn  Univer 
sity,  Illinois,  he  filled  that  office  for  eleven  years,  when  he  became  pastor  of  the  Presby 
terian  Church  in  Highland  Park,  a  suburb  of  Chicago..  After  seven  years  in  this  posi 
tion,  he  resigned,  and  retired  from  active  public  duties.  Twenty-three  years  of  his  life 
have  been  spent  in  the  teacher's  chair,  and  twenty-five  in  the  pulpit.  Many  of  his  ser 
mons  and  lectures  have  been  published,  and  a  private  edition  of  his  poems  printed.  The 
honorary  degrees  of  Master  of  Arts,  Doctor  of  Philosophy  and  Doctor  of  Divinity  have 
been  conferred  on  him  by  different  institutions  of  learning  in  the  West.  Mr.  Soule  was 
designated  as  the  first  State  Superintendent  of  Schools  in  Indiana -in  1847-  and  as  Reg 
ister  of  the  Land  Office  for  the  Territory  of  Oregon,  but  felt  obliged  to  decline  these 
positions. 


LEFT  BEHIND. 

A  flock  of  singing  birds, 
We  met  together  in  life's  sunny  spring, 
With  tuneful  hearts  and  voices  carolling, 

In  song  unknown  to  words. 

What  time  the  blushing  dawn 
Rose  from  her  early  couch  of  golden  mist, 
And,  wrapt  in  robes  of  pink  and  amethyst, 

Unlocked  the  gates  of  morn: 


184  TllK  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Or  when  the  evening  sun 
Sank  bright  and  glorious  to  his  royal  rest, 
Among  the  purple  pillows  of  the  west, 

When  the  long  day  was  done : 

Our  late  and  early  song 

Was  breathed  where  spreading  beech  and  whispering  pine 
Their  soft  and  trembling  shadows  intertwine 

With  branches  broad  and  long. 

Ofttime  the  laughing  hours, 
Hand-linked,  allured  us  to  sweet-scented  plains, 
Or  meadows  billowy  with  the  bending  grains, 

Or  hill-sides  starred  with  flowers. 

But  borne  on  happy  wing, 

Each  songster  long  hath  flown  to  sunnier  skies, 
To  chant  new  joys  in  other  melodies, 

Of  higher  loves  to  sing ! 

And,  left  behind  among 
November's  leafless  boughs,  I  list  in  vain 
For  the  sweet  cadence  of  that  choral  strain 

Our  hearts  together  sung. 

The  pine's  sad  monotone 
Still  breathes  its  tender  anthem  as  of  yore, 
But  those  sweet  psalms  of  memory  o'er  and  o'er, 

Wing-broke,  I  sing  alone. 


FAREWELL. 

There  is  an  hour — an  hour  of  bliss, 
A  moment  rich  with  happiness, 

When  cares  and  sighs  depart; 
When  they  that  love,  approach  to  meet 
The  mutual  welcome;  and  the  sweet 

Response  of  heart  to  heart. 

There  is  an  hour  of  sadness,  too, 
When  o'er  our  joys  that  dread  adieu 

Falls  like  a  withering  blast; 
When  hands  are  linked  and  fondly  pressed, 
With  heaving  sighs  and  throbbing  breast — 

Those  traitors  of  the  past. 


ANDREW  DUNNING.  185 


When  bitter  thoughts  arise  so  strong, 
And  kind  affection  lingers  long 

To  meet  the  last  farewell ; 
When  flowing  tears  are  freely  sent 
From  struggling  souls,  more  eloquent 

Than  words,  those  thoughts  to  tell. 

'T  was  thus  we  parted — but  a  thrill 
Of  joyful  hope  pervaded  still 

The  grief-impassioned  heart, 
Which  told  of  brighter  hours,  to  be 
From  doubt  and  disappointment  free,a 
When  bound  in  sweetest  sympathy 

We  meet — but  not  to  part. 


jlndmv  jjmminy. 


This  gentleman  was  born  ,in  Brunswick,  July,  1815,  and  after  graduating  at  Bowdoin 
College,  lie  entered  upon  a  course  of  theological  study  in  Bangor  Seminary,  where  he 
graduated  in  1840.  He  was  first  settled  over  a  Congregational  church  and  society  in 
Plaintield,  Conn.  In  I860,  he  was  installed  over  the  church  in  Thompson,  Conn.,  where 
he  ministered  until  his  death,  in  1872.  He  was  a  man  of  ability  and  culture,  much 
respected  and  beloved. 


ST.  JOrfN  IN  EXILE. 

AN   EXTKACT. 

Death  was  decreed,  or  banishment,  to  all  of  Christian  faith, 

And  he  stood  before  the  Roman  power,  for  exile,  or  for  death. 

The  weakness  of  declining  years  was  all  forgotten  now; 

He  stood  erect  with  fearless  eye,  and  an  unquailing  brow. 

Though  storms  might  break  in  darkness  round,  there  was  an  arm  to  save; 

Through  faith  he  trod  the  lifting  seas,  for  Christ  was  on  the  wave. 

Amid  the  war  of  elements,  he  saw  the  rainbow  dyes 

Arching  in  bows  of  promise  sure,  across  the  frowning  skies. 

The  clouds  hung  heavy  o'er  his  head,  but  sunlight  in  his  soul 

Darted  athwart  the  fearful  gloom,  and  richly  tinged  the  whole. 

He  gazed  upon  the  soldier  guard,  with  spear  and  waving  crest; 

And  the  thronging  mass  of  bloody  men  that  round  him  thickly  prest; 

Cairn  and  undaunted  was  his  gaze,  and  through  the  troubled  air, 

Went  up,  from  his  confiding  heart,  the  spirit-whispered  prayer. 

His  heart  was  fixed, — his  faith  was  firm,  for  he  leaned  upon  the  breast 

Of  his  beloved  Saviour  still,  and  felt  the  promised  rest. 

The  stern  decree  of  banishment  to  Patmos'  lonely  shore, 

Was  circled  with  celestial  light,  and  tints  of  glory  bore. 


186  TI1K  rOETS  OF  MAINE. 


'T  was  joy  to  leave  a  treacherous  world,  'twas  happiness  to  meet, 

Far  from  the  faithlessness  of  man,  a  solitude  so  sweet. 

'Twas  joy  to  share  the  angry  scorn  by  persecutors  poured 

Upon  that  consecrated  band,  the  followers  of  the  Lord. 

He  would  not  shield  his  aged  frame  from  vengeance  or  from  death, 

By  coward  act  of  perfidy— denial  of  the  faith. 

******* 

And  he  who  left  the  city's  throng,  to  seek  his  island  home, 
Left  but  a  wilderness  behind,  through  paradise  to  roam. 
He  stepped  upon  the  rocky  strand,  and  bade  the  world  farewell; 
Angels,  and  heaven,  and  God,  came  down  with  him  on  earth  to  dwell. 
Nature  in  all  her  varied  charms  to  him  was  given  yet, 
The  marvels  and  the  pomps  of  heaven,  with  earth's  in  concord  met. 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  "Greece,  living  Greece,"  appeared, 
And  there  the  "clustering  Cyclades"  round,  their  forms  of  beauty  reared 
Vibrations  of  a  thousand  strings  in  music  met  his  ear; 
The  glorious  canopy  of  stars,  the  sky  serenely  clear: 
The  winds  and  waters  whispered  peace  upon  the  lonely  shore, 
And  white-winged  spirits  of  repose  brooded  its  stillness  o'er. 
******* 

The  New  Jerusalem  appeared,  in  dazzling  splendor  crowned ; 
Bright  jasper  walls,  with  gates  of  pearl,  encircled  it  around. 
This  was  the  exile's  solitude— celestial  visions  given ; 
Communion  with  the  world  denied,  communion  held  with  heaven! 


nrxh  jjridgts  jjjwulow 


Sarah  Bridges  Winslow  Seavey,  born  Aug.  11,  1815,  at  Westbrook,  Me.  Marriei  Dr. 
Marcian  Seavey,  July  10,  1864.  She  resided  in  Westbrook  several  years,  but  was  a  resi 
dent  of  Portland  most  of  her  life. 

THE  INNER  VOICE. 

Too  near  thy  trusting  heart 
Have  memory  and  hope  their  fledglings  lain— 

And  thou  hast  watched  them  one  by  one  depart, 
Despite  thy  prayer,  despite  thy  heart's  deep  pain; 

Till  all  the  sunlight  in  thy  heart  grew  dim, 

And  filled  thy  cup  with  sorrow  to  its  brim. 

Hath  fallen  from  lips,  whose  smile 
Gave  light  and  gladness,  words  that  chill  — 

And  through  thy  stricken  heart  the  while 
Pierced  like  a  dagger's  point,  and  rankling  still 

Within  its  deepest  cell,  the  reeking  blade, 

Its  fresh,  warm  life-blood,  flowing  unallayed! 


SARA  U  BRIDGES  WIN SL O  W  SEA  VEY.  187 

Still  cherish,  and  still  love- 
But  hope  thou  not,  nor  ask  for  its  return ; 

And  the  warm  sunlight,  shining  from  above, 
Flowing  within  thy  spirit's  inmost  urn, 

Thy  cup  of  grief  with  gladness  soon  shall  till, 

And  through  thy  heart  shall  echo,  "Peace,  be  still." 

Lift  thou  thy  thoughts  above; 

To  the  filled  chambers  of  thy  inmost  soul 
Gather  the  meekness  and  the  might  of  love, 

And  to  its  majesty  yield  full  control; 
Gather  it  there,  where  He,  thy  Father  fills- 
All  discord  it  makes  peace,  and  all  unquiet  stills. 

Listen!  the  inner  voice, 
From  that  deep  life  whose  yearnings  thou  canst  feel 

And  ever  offers  freely  to  thy  choice, 
Hath  potency  life's  every  ill  to  heal; 

From  the  full  fountain  of  eternal  life 

It  urges  down  its  way,  with  blessings  rife. 

Learn  of  the  meek,  low  flower, 
Whose  beauty  through  thy  soul  hath  sent  a  thrill 

Of  joy  and  reverence,  with  power, 
Whose  voiceless  eloquence  shall  never  still; 

Learn  of  the  flower!— if  crushed  beneath  thy  feet, 

The  odor  from  its  cup  is  then  exhaled  more  sweet. 


FOR  THE  HARVEST. 
The  summer  is  passed,  and  the  harvest, 

The  reapers  have  gathered  the  grain; 
In  the  sunbeams  the  bare  branches  shiver, — 

The  dead  leaves  are  strewn  o'er  the  plain; 
The  hoar  frost  is  scattered  like  ashes, 

And  soon  will  the  snow  fall  like  wool. 
See,  all  is  prepared  for  the  winter, 

The  barns  and  the  store-houses  full. 

Yet,  ever  I  hear  a  low  whisper — 

A  reaper's  abroad  in  the  field, 
Who  ceaseth  not,  summer  nor  winter, 

Whatever  the  sown  seed  may  yield, 
To  gather  and  bear  to  the  garner, 

And  treasure  with  faithfulest  care, 
Till  summons  goes  out  to  the  toiler, 

The  fruit  of  his  labor  to  share. 


188  THE  POETS  OF  MA1XE, 


From  fields  of  the  spirit,  this  reaper 

Binds  sheaves  at  the  close  of  each  day, 
Nor  needeth  the  aid  of  a  gleaner 

To  follow  the  steps  of  his  way; 
He  beareth  it  all  to  the  Master, 

The  chaff  with  the  beautiful  grain, 
That  when  ye  shall  cease  from  the  toiling. 

Its  fruits  shall  all  meet  you  again ! 

Soul!  soul!  what  hadst  thou  for  this  reaper, 

The  days  and  the  weeks  of  thy  years  ? 
Hath  stern  self-denial  wrought  patience, 

Whose  baptismal  dews  were  thy  tears  ? 
Hath  honor  and  truth  been  thy  pole-star — 

Deeds,  noble  words,  kindly  and  true? 
Lies  no  mildew  or  blight  in  the  garner 

Where  the  life-harvest  waiteth  for  you  ? 


Hon.  Edmund  Flagg,  the  only  son  of  the  late  Edmund  Fi;igg,  of  Cluster,  K.  11.,  was 
born  in  the  town  of  Wiscasset,  Nov.  24,  1815.  He  graduated  Avith  distinction  at  Bowdoin 
College,  in  the  class  of  1835,  and  immediately  went  West  with  his  mother  and  sister,  pass 
ing  the  winter  at  Louisville,  teaching  the  classics  to  a  few  boys,  and  contributing  largely  to 
Prentice's  Louisville  Journal.  Later  he  published  a  work  entitled  "The  Far  West,"  and, 
in  1838,  edited  the  St  Louis  Daily  CoWtfaercial,  bringing  out  in  the  fall  of  that  year  the 
work  above  mentioned  in  two  volumes,  from  the  press  of  the  Harpers.  He  AVJIS  reporter 
of  debates  to  the  Constitutional  Convention  of  Missouri  in  1846,  and  of  the  courts  of  St. 
Louis  ;  was  secretary  of  Hon.  M.  Hannegan,  Minister  to  Berlin,  United  States  Consul  at 
Venice,  and  a  fruit  of  his  position  was  "The  City  of  the  Sea,"  a  history  of  Venice,  two 
volumes  ;  was  in  charge  of  the  bureau  of  statistics,  and  prepared,  under  Secretary  Marcy, 
a  report  on  the  relations  of  the  "United  States  Avith  foreign  nations,  highly  commended  : 
was  librarian  of  copyrights.  Mr.  Flagg  has  also  published  several  prize  novels,  and  also 
several  dramas.  In  1853  and  '54,  a  series  of  sketches  referring  to  the  West,  from  his  pen, 
were  contributed  to  the  "United  States  Illustrated."  For  several  years  past  Mr.  Flagg 
has  resided  on  a  farm  at  Highland  View,  near  Falls  Church,  Va. 


SMILES  OFT  DECEIVE  US. 
Ah,  do  not  say  the  heart  is  light, 

And  free  from  every  care, 
Because  the  eye  beams  calm  and  bright, 

And  only  peace  is  there. 
Around  the  monumental  stone 

The  gayest  flowers  may  creep — 
The  breast  may  wither  chill  and  lone, 

Yet  smiles  the  brow  may  keep. 

Unseen — unknown — the  electric  dart 
Sleeps  in  the  rolling  cloud — 

So  sleeps  within  the  stricken  heart 
The  grief  it  most  would  shroud. 


EDMUND  FLAGG.  189 


The  sunniest  smile  may  often  glow 
Where  sorrows  gloomiest  lower — 

Upon  the  sky  will  hang  the  bow, 
Though  all  is  shade  and  shower. 

The  mountain-oak  oft  seems  most  sound 

When  yielding  to  decay — 
The  breast  may  hide  a  deadly  wound, 

While  lip  and  cheek  are  gay. 
Along  the  crushed  and  tumbling  tower 

The  ivy-leaf  may  steal- 
So  laugh  and  jest  in  pleasure's  bower 

The  wasting  heart  conceal. 
Soft  summer's  leaves  are  fresh  and  fair, 

But  not  so  bright  are  they, 
As  when  on  Autumn's  misty  air 

The  forest-rainbows  play.  • 

Fair  on  the  cheek  is  beauty's  blush, 

Where  rose  and  lily  meet, 
And  yet  consumption's  hectic  flush, 

Though  sad,  is  far  more  sweet. 
'Tis  not — 'tis  not  the  clam'rous  groan — 

The  querulous  complaint — 
The  gushing  tear— the  frequent  moan 

That  speaks  the  soul's  lament. 
Sorrow's  a  proud— a  lonely  thing, 

And  never  stoops  to  mourn — 
The  Spartan's  mantle  o'er  the  fang 

It  clasps, — and  bleeds  alone. 
There  oft  is  woe  which  never  weeps — 

Tears  which  are  never  shed- 
Deep  in  the  soul  their  fountain  sleeps, 

When  hope  and  joy  are  fled. 
Yet  who  would  ask  the  stagnant  breast, 

Which  chills  not— never  glows? 
Who  would  not  spurn  that  w^aveless  rest 

Which  neither  ebbs  nor  flows? 
Then,  think  not,  though  the  brow  is  free 

From  shade  of  gloom  or  care, 
The  breast  is  as  a  summer  sea, 

And  happiness  dwells  there. 
Ah,  think  not,  though  the  sunny  glance 

Upon  the  cheek  may  play, 
And  on  the  lip  the  jest  may  dance, 

That  grief  is  far  away. 
13* 


190  TllK  HUEl't>  OF  MAINE. 


FARE  THEE  WELL. 

Aye,  be  it  so !    The  clouds  around  me  bending, 
Thy  sunnier  lot  in  life  must  never  shade: 

Hope's  withered  wishes  on  the  heart  descending, 
Must  never  cause  that  smiling  lip  to  fade; 

Enough  that  we  have  met,  though  sad  the  parting- 
Enough,  if  I  have  shrined  within  thy  heart 

One  simple  thought— ah,  but  one  lingering  feeling, — 
With  which,  without  a  sigh,  thou  wouldst  not  part. 

Then  fare  thee  well!  whate'er  the  fate  betiding— 

Whate'er  of  grief,  or  joy,  may  chance  to  me— 
Oh,  may  Love's  rainbow,  ever  o'er  thee  bending, 

Hallow  a  life  of  bright  tranquility. 
And,  when  of  me  all  memory  hath  perished, 

If  chance— as  chance  it  may — thou  hear'st  my  name, 
Think  'tis  of  one  whose  thoughts  of  thee  are  cherished 

Who — dead  to  love — had  lived  alone  for  fame. 


entworth 


Michael  W.  Beck  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  Nov.  29, 1815.  At  the  death  of  his 
father  he  was  adopted  by  his  uncle,  Gideon  Beck,  editor  and  publisher  of  the  New  Hamp 
shire  Gazette,  and  at  an  early  age  Michael  began  an  active  business  life  as  a  practical 
printer.  Soon  after  completing  his  apprenticeship  in  the  office  of  the  Gazette,  in  1832,  he 
went  to  Boston,  and  worked  in  the  office  of  Tuttle  &  Weeks,  printers.  While  at  work 
there  he  often  contributed  poetry  to  the  columns  of  the  Boston  Post.  In  1837  Mr.  Beck 
came  to  Saco,  in  this  State.  He  purchased,  in  company  with  another,  the  Maine  Dem 
ocrat.  In  the  management  of  this  paper  he  was  both  printer  and  editor,  and  so  intense 
was  his  application  to  the  business  of  the  establishment,  that  his  physical  constitution 
became  atfecte  I  by  a  disease,  which  early  terminated  his  earthly  career.  His  intellect 
ual  powers  were  strong  and  active,  and,  for  one  of  his  years,  well  matured.  His  reputa 
tion  as  a  political  writer  stood  deservedly  high.  He  died  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  March  9, 
1843. 

THE  WORLD  AS  IT  IS. 

This  world  is  not  so  bad  a  world 

As  some  would  wish  to  mike  it; 
Though  whether  good,  or  whether  bad, 

Depends  on  how  we  take  it. 
For  if  we  scold  and  fret  all  day, 

From  dewy  morn  till  even, 
This  world  will  ne'er  afford  to  man 

A  foretaste  here  of  heaven. 

This  world  in  truth's  as  good  a  world 

As  e'er  was  known  to  any 
Who  have  not  seen  another  yet 

(And  these  are  very  many:) 


A.  D.    WOODBRIDGE.  191 


And  if  the  men  and  women  too 
Have  plenty  of  employment, 

Those  surely  must  be  hard  to  please, 
Who  cannot  find  enjoyment. 

This  world  is  quite  a  clever  world, 

In  rain,  or  pleasant  weather, 
If  people  would  but  learn  to  live 

In  harmony  together; 
Nor  seek  to  break  the  kindly  bond 

By  love  and  peace  cemented, 
And  learn  that  best  of  lessons  yet, 

To  always  be  contented. 

Then  were  the  world  a  pleasant  world, 

And  pleasant  folks  were  in  it; 
The  day  would  pas<s  most  pleasantly, 

To  those  who  thus  begin  it; 
And  all  the  nameless  grievances 

Brought  on  by  borrowed  troubles 
Would  prove,  as  certainly  they  are, 

A  miss  of  empty  bubbles! 


Miss  A.  D.  Woodbridge  was  born  in  Penobscot  County,  about  1815,  but  in  what  town 
we  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain.  She  is  included  in  "Read's  Female  Poets  of  America," 
in  the  "American  Female  Poets,"  by  Caroline  May,  and  in  "Native  Poets  of  Maine,"  pub 
lished  in  1854,  but  none  of  these  books  give  a  biographical  sketch  from  which  we  can 
gleau  any  definite  information.  In  1847,  an  elegant,  illustrated  volume,  entitled  "The 
Rainbow,"  was  published  in  New  York,  in -which  her  name  appears.  She  also  for  several 
years  contributed  to  the  most  popular  Annuals  then  published,  and  for  ten  years  was 
connected  with  the  Albany  Female  Academy,  as  a  teacher,  where  she  was  highly  esteemed 
for  purity  of  character  and  superior  talent.  In  1846  she  removed  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  and 
became  connected  with  the  new  seminary  there.  Her  writings  are  characterized  by  a 
deep  religious  purity  anil  earnestness. 


LIFE'S  LIGHT  AXD  SHADE. 

How  strangely,  in  this  life  of  ours, 

Light  falls  amid  the  darkest  shade! 
How  soon  the  thorn  is  hid  by  flowers! 

How  Hope,  sweet  spirit,  comes  to  aid 
The  heart  oppresed  by  care  and  pain, 

And  whispers,  "all  shall  yet  be  well!1' 
We  listen  to  her  magic  strain, 

And  yield  the  spirit  to  her  spell. 


192  TEE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


How  oft  when  Love  is  like  a  bird 

Whose  weary  wing  sweeps  o'er  the  sea, 
While  not  an  answering  note  is  heard, 

She  spies  a  verdant  olive-tree; 
And  soon  within  that  sheltering  bower, 

She  pours  her  very  soul  in  song, 
While  other  voices  wake  that  hour, 

Her  gentle  numbers  to  prolong. 

Thus,  when  this  heart  is  sad  and  lone, 

As  Memory  wakes  her  dirge-like  hymn, 
When  Hope  on  heavenward  wing  has  flown, 

And  earth  seems  wrapped  in  shadows  dim; 
O  then  a  word,  a  glance,  a  smile, 

A  simple  flower,  a  childhood's  glee, 
Will  each  sad  thought,  each  care  beguile, 

Till  joy's  bright  fountain  gushes  free. 

To-day,  its  waters  softly  stirred, 

For  Peace  was  nigh,  that  gentle  dove! 
And  sweet  as  song  of  forest-bird, 

Came  the  low  voice  of  one  I  love ; 
And  flowers,  the  smile  of  heaven,  were  mine, 

They  seemed  to  whisper,  "Why  so  sad? 
Of  love  we  are  the  seal  and  sign, 

We  come  to  make  thy  spirit  glad." 

Thus  ever  in  the  steps  of  grief 

Are  seen  the  precious  seeds  of  joy, 
Each  "fount  of  Marah"  hath  a  "leaf," 

Whose  healing  balm  we  may  employ. 
Then  midst  Life's  fitful,  fleeting  day, 

Look  up!  the  sky  is  bright  above; 
Kind  voices  cheer  thee  on  thy  way, 

Faint  spirit!  trust  the  God  of  Love! 


atlmnul 


N.  L.  Sawyer,  who  was  torn  in  Greene,  about  1815,  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in 
the  class  of  1838.  His  friend,  C.  C.  Nutter,  Esq.,  in  the  History  of  Bowdoin  College, 
speaks  of  Mr.  Sawyer  as  a  man  whose  "  natural  abilities  were  of  a  very  high  character, 
and  enabled  him  easily  to  excel  in  every  department  of  college  study.  As  a  writer,  both 
in  prose  and  poetry,  lie  exhibited  great  originality,  strength  of  thought  and  vigor  of 
style.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Kennebec  Bar,  and  practiced  a  short  time  in  Gardiner,  and 
in  this  brief  period  exhibited  such  a  devotion  to  the  duties  of  his  vocation,  and  such 
capacity  to  excel  in  all  its  various  branches,  as  gave  gratifying  assurance  that,  had  his 
life  been  spared,  he  would  have  attained  to  a  very  eminent  rank  in  his  profession."  He 
died  in  Greene  (1845)  of  consumption. 


NATHANIEL  L.  SAWYER.  19;{ 


MUSIC  AND  MEMORY. 

AN   EXTRACT. 

Oh !  music  hath  a  magic  power, 
That  serves  to  soothe  a  weary  hour, 
When  perished  hopes  and  fortunes  lower; 
From  present  care  and  toil  it  weans, 
And  wafts  us  back  to  halcyon  scenes 
Of  boyhood,  when  the  pulse  ran  wild, 
And  every  vision  undefiled 
Beamed  on  the  waking  slumberer  bright, 
Instinct  with  ever  fresh  delight. 

There's  music  in  the  lone  cascade, 
That  having  swept  the  upland  glade, 
Now  dashes  clown  where  years  have  made 
A  deep  and  wild  ravine; 
It  minds  us  of  life's  opening  spring, 
Joys  early  ripe  thick-clustering— 
And  mimic  hopes  on  golden  wing, 
Glancing  the  while  between! 

The  steeple  bell  that  fills  the  air, 

The  organ  in  the  house  of  prayer, 

With  voices  chanting,  all  declare 

In  Sabbath  morning  hour, 

'Mid  shadows  of  a  greener  year— 

The  friends  whose  lessening  forms  appear 

With  undiminished  power. 

The  Switzer  dreams  of  Father-land, 
While  captive  Judah's  mourning  band 
By  Babel's  willowy  stream 
Hang  up  their  harps.    From  palace  dome, 
To  cottage  thatched,  where'er  we  roam, 
Soft  music  turns  the  exile  home, 
Where  passed  his  young  life's  dream. 

The  stars  of  heaven  that  o'er  us  beam, 

The  murmur  of  some  gentle  stream, 

Will  open  memory's  cell — 

And  lead  the  wanderer  back  through  years 

Of  woes  and  pains  and  wasting  fears, 

And  joys  that  flash  through  streaming  tears, 

And  leave  him  there  to  dwell 

Witli  youthful  haunts  and  school-boy  plays, 

And  hills  and  streams  and  sunny  days 

Where  memory  ever  fondly  strays. 


194  THE  POET  IS  OF  MAINE. 

Ay!  thus  I  thought,  as  one  lone  eve 
The  balmy  air  came  whispering  by, 
And  nature's  spirit  seemed  to  grieve, 
And  still  above,  the  azure  sky 
Seemed  weeping  silent  tears  of  dew,— 
While  far  adown  night's  sombre  hue, 
Pale  Lunar' s  beam  came  wandering  through 
The  star-paved  firmament  of  blue. 

'Twas  then  my  thoughts  were  hurried  back, 
Along  life's  deviating  track, — 
'Twas  then  I  felt  that  music's  power 
Could  soothe  to  peace  the  troubled  hour,— 
'Twas  then  I  struck  my  harp  anew, 
Music  and  Memory,  unto  you. 


^jasegh  ^zhton  Ifjomm. 


Joseph  Ashton  Homan,born  in  Marblehead,Mass.,  Jan.  12,  1816,  served  his  apprentice 
ship  as  printer  in  Boston  ;  came  to  Augusta,  December,  1837  ;  married  in  1840;  published 
the  Gospel  Banner  from  1843  to  1858,  and  the  Maine  Farmer  from  1858  to  1878.  Since 
then  retired  from  active  business,  and  now  spending  most  of  his  time  in  trying  to  make 
"  two  spires  of  grass  grow  where  one  greAV  before."  A  brief  record  of  a  long  and  useful 
life. 


THE  MEN  OF  AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

SUNG   AT   THE    CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION    IN    AUGUSTA,  JULY   4,  1854. 

Come  join  in  Freedom's  roundelay! 

Let  voice  with  voice  combine 
To  celebrate  in  song  the  deeds 
And  days  of  "auld  lang  syne." 
The  glorious  deeds — heroic  deeds 

And  days  of  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  cherish  the  remembrance  yet 
Of  auld  lang  syne. 

We've  met  to  mingle  incense  here, 

To  lay  on  Freedom's  shrine 
An  offering  worthy  those  who  bled 
In  Freedom's  cause,  lang  syne. 
The  men  whose  blood  flowed  free  for  right, 

The  patriots  of  laiigsyne; 
We  ne'er  can  pay  the  mighty  debt 
Of  auld  lang  syne. 


JOSKPII  ASH  TON  HOMAN.  195 


There  needs  no  proud,  heraldic  boast, 

No  long  ancestral  line, 
To  stamp  with  tinselled  blazonry 
The  names  of  auld  lang  syne. 
The  storied  names,  immortal  names, 

The  names  of  auld  lang  syne; 

True  worth  alone  ennobles  them, 

The  names  of  auld  lang  syne. 

A  brighter  halo  crowns  their  deeds, 

More  gloriously  shine 
On  Fame's  illumined  chronicles, 
The  names  of  auld  lang  syne. 
Revered  names,  time-honored  names, 

Those  mines  of  auld  lang  syne; 
A  nation's  glory  crowns  the  names 
Of  auld  lang  syne. 

Yes,  this  is  Freedom's  natal  day, 

And  round  her  holy  shrine 
We  yield  the  grateful  homage  due 
The  names  of  auld  lang  syne. 
The  venerated  ones  of  eld, 

The  men  of  auld  lang  syne, 
Earth's  annals  boast  no  prouder  ones, 
The  names  of  auld  lang  syne. 

Then  let  each  voice  go  up  in  song, 

And  let  our  fingers  twine 
The  wreath  for  Freedom's  champions, 
The  men  of  auld  lang  syne. 
The  lion-hearted  men  whose  deeds 
Have  treasured  been,  lang  syne, 
A  nation's  love  embalms  the  names 
Of  auld  lang  syne. 


ODE  TO  THE  SNOW. 

Hail,  feathered  visitant!  with  joy  again 

I  mark  in  airy  flight  thy  downy  flakes, 
Blithe  harbingers  of  hoary  Winter's  reign! 

And  though  thou  bringest  with  thee  colds  and  aches, 
Nipped  ears  and  noses,  cramps  and  ague-shakes, 

Yet  ever  welcome  to  me  is  the  sight 
Of  thy  pale  countenance ;  thy  coming  wakes 

The  heart  to  kindly  feeling,  and  delight 
Beams  in  the  eyes  that  scan  thy  spotless  garb  of  white. 


19S  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Pale,  pale  as  wan  consumption,  thy  caress, 

If  fascinating,  is  not  fatal  too ; 
Thou  bringest  health  and  ruddy  happiness 

In  thy  bleak  train;  not  the  deceitful  hue 
With  which  disease  in  siren  guise  doth  woo 

Its  charmed  victims  to  an  early  tomb; 
Thy  cool  breath  sends  the  quick  blood  thrilling  through 

The  leaping  arteries,  dispels  the  gloom 
Which  clouds  the  brow  and  tints  the  hueless  cheek  with  bloom. 

On  lighter  wings  than  pinions  of  the  dove 

Thou  visitest  our  dark  terrestial  sphere, 
And  evanescent  too,  as  woman's  love, 

Yet  like  that  love,  with  all  its  frailty,  dear; 
And  I  might  almost  deem  thy  grief  sincere, 

When  envious  Sol,  with  his  dissolving  ray, 
Doth  bid  thee  hence;  for  then  the  crystal  tear 

Bedews  the  cheek  of  one  who,  bright  and  gay, 
Hath  come  to  us  in  joy,  and  weeping  goes  away. 

And  thou,  O  Snow,  as  poets  feign,  art  chaste; 

Pure  as  Pygmalion's  statue,  ere  the  fire 
Of  life  and  passion  thrilled  the  heart  and  traced 

Expression  on  the  brow.     Thoughts  that  inspire 
The  soul  with  burning  love  and  soft  desire 

Are  silent  in  thy  breast;  stern  as  the  knell 
Which  tells  of  blighted  hopes;  not  e'en  the  lyre 

That  Orpheus  touched  of  yore  with  magic  spell 
Oan  with  emotion  make  thy  frigid  bosom  swell. 

The  moon  is  not  more  chaste;  and  apropos 

Of  her,  I  have  a  new  hypothesis, 
Which,  singing  of  thy  chastity,  O  Snow, 

Reminds  me  of;  something,  I  ween,  like  this; 
Methinks  yon  lovely  orb,  whose  cold  beams  kiss 

The  hills,  the  sea,  and  bathes  far,  far  along 
With  her  pale  flood  the  waving  wilderness, 

Is  one  vast  snow-ball,  frozen  mid  the  throng 
Of  worlds,  for  some  dark  sin,  some  unforgiven  wrong. 

Perchance  a  sharer  in  the  same  high  crime 
Which  banished  the  lost  pleiad  from  the  skies, 

In  endless  expiation,  until  Time 
Shall  be  no  longer,  sorrowing  she  hies 


DAVID  BARKER.  197 


Upon  her  way,  a  warning  to  the  eyes 
Of  pitying  sister  spheres!  a  quaint  conceit! 

That  may  be  laughed  at  by  the  over- wise ; 
But  sense  and  knowledge  do  not  always  greet, 

And  Folly  sometimes  sits  in  vaunting  Wisdom's  seat. 


GOOD-BYE ! 

Good-bye !  how  sadness  mingles  with  the  word ; 

With  what  a  tone  it  trembles  on  the  ear; 
How,  when  its  echoes  hath  the  heart-strings  stirred, 

And  moments  precious  then  grow  doubly  dear. 
How  will  the  feelings  we  have  sought  to  smother 

Burst  into  flame;  how  will  the  changing  cheek, 
The  throb  of  hearts  that  closer  press  each  other, 

Betray  a  language  which  110  tongue  can  speak; 
How  at  that  word  the  mist  of  gathering  tears 

Bedims  the  brightness  of  love-lighted  eyes ; 
How  in  the  bosom  will  foreboding  fears, 

Like  the  dread  phantoms  in  our  dreams  arise, 
And  dark  futurity's  mysterious  scroll, 

Where  destiny  hath  writ,  lie  open  to  the  soul ! 


j£arid 

This  well-known  poet  was  born  in  Exeter,  Sept.  9,  1816,  and  died  at  the  house  of  his 
brother  Mark  Barker,  Esq.,  in  Bangor,  Sept.  14,  1874,  at  die  age  of  fifty-eight  years  In 
early  life  he  devoted  himself  to  a  course  of  self-education,  and,  bv  a  thorough  and  ardu 
ous  research,  acquired  what  was  then  considered  a  superior  education.  Such  proficiency 
did  he  make  m  the  excellent  Academy  at  Foxcroft  that,  after  a  time,  he  was  employed  in 
it  as  an  assistant.  After  leaving  Foxcroft  he  became  a  very  popular  teacher  at  Eastport 
and  elsewhere  and  later,  as  alaw  student,  entered  the  office  of  the  Hon.  Samuel  Cony  at 
JGxeter.  Mr.  Barker  was  in  successful  practice  in  his  native  town  until  within  two  or 
three  years  before  his  death.  As  a  poet  he  obtained  a  distinguished  reputation  a ii 
many  of  his  metrical  gems  are  destined  to  live.  An  elegant  volume  of  his  poems  with 
biographical  sketch  by  the  Hon.  John  E.  Godfrey,  and  which  has  passed  through 'sever. 


MY  CHILD'S  ORIGIN. 

One  night,  as  old  Saint  Peter  slept, 
He  left  the  door  of  Heaven  ajar, 

When  through,  a  little  angel  crept, 
And  came  down  with  a  falling  star. 

One  summer,  as  the  blessed  beams 

Of  morn  approached,  my  blushing  bride 
Awakened  from  some  pleasant  dreams, 
And  found  that  angel  by  her  side. 


198  THE  P OE T8  O F  MAIN  E. 


God  grant  but  this — I  ask  no  more — 
That  when  he  leaves  this  world  of  sin, 

He'll  wing  his  way  for  that  blest  shore 
And  find  that  door  of  heaven  again. 

TRY  AGAIN. 

Should  your  cherished  purpose  fail, 
Never  falter,  swerve,  nor  quail; 
Nerve  the  arm  and  raise  the  hand, 
Fling  the  outer  garments  by, 
With  a  dauntless  courage  stand, 
Shouting  forth  the  battle  cry, 
Try  again ! 

Is  your  spirit  bowed  by  grief, 
Rally  quick,  for  life  is  brief; 
Every  saint  in  yonder  sphere, 
Borne  through  tribulation  here, 
Whispers  in  the  anxious  ear 
Of  each  mortal  in  despair, 
Try  again! 

What  though  stricken  to  the  earth, 
Up,  man,  as  from  second  birth; 
Yonder  flower  beneath  the  tread, 
Struggling  where  the  foot  has  gone, 
Rising  feebly  in  its  bed, 
Tells  the  hopeless  looker-on, 
Try  again ! 

Guided  by  the  hand  of  Right, 
With  Hope's  taper  for  a  light, 
With  a  destiny  like  ours, 
And  that  destiny  to  choose ; 
With  such  God-created  powers 
And  a  heaven  to  gain  or  lose, 
Try  again ! 


FROM  "MY  FIRST  COURTSHIP." 
When,  for  the  first  time  in  your  life 
You  dream  of  those  strange  words,  a  wife, 
And  from  your  mother's  cupboard  go, 
And  the  first  time  in  earnest  throw, 
In  kind  of  bashful,  leisure  haste, 
Your  green  arm  'round  a  green  girl's  waist; 
If  like  the  mariner,  when  tossed 


DA  VII)  BAR KER .  1 99 


On  wave,  with  chart  and  compass  lost, 

Who  trusts  his  helm,  when  tempest-driven, 

To  the  old  dipper-star  in  heaven, 

She,  in  her  new  and  girlish  bliss, 

Will  trust  your  first,  raw,  country  kiss, 

Then  look  as  nappy's  though  she  knew 

She'd  got  one  hard  week's  washing  through, - 

And  if  it  gives  your  nerves  a  twist, 

And  sends  a  prickling  through  the  wrist 

Much  like  a  tunk  upon  the  point, 

Or  apex  of  your  elbow  joint, 

Brings  from  your  stomach  long-drawn  sighs, 

And  pump.s  up  w.iter  through  the  eyes, — 

Then  bet  that  you  are  both  in  love, 

And  that  the  match  was  made  above, 

That  you  and  she,  through  smiles  and  tears, 

Will  live  and  love  through  life's  long  years,— 

She  turning  with  her  wealth  of  soul, 

As  turns  the  needle  to  the  pole, 

And  clinging  through  your  rise  and  fall, 

As  clings  the  ivy  to  the  wall, — 

Unless  some  fancy,  curl-haired  fop 

Wades  in  and  breaks  love's  crockery  up. 


FAITH,  HOPE,  CHARITY. 

Distrust  not  every  form  without, 

Than  live  through  life  such  living  death, 
In  the  betraying  fiend  of  Doubt 

Have  Faith. 

Though  through  a  blind-man's-buff  we're  led. 

Or  though  in  dusky  paths  we  grope, 
In  a  blest  something,  just  ahead, 

Have  Hope. 

The  tre  icherous  blocks  we  may  not  see 

O'er  which  our  stumbling  brothers  fall, 
So  then  have  God-like  Charity 

For  all. 

With  these — the  three — we  may  be  blest, 

And  leave  behind  us  when  we  go, 
Around  Life's  sunset  in  the  west, 

A  glow. 


200 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Then  onward  press,  though  for  the  grave, 

And  calmly  meet  the  closing  strife, — 
Death  is  the  only  proof  we  have 

Of  life. 


THE  COVERED  BRIDGE. 

Tell  the  fainting  soul  in  the  weary  form 
There 's  a  world  of  the  purest  bliss 

That  is  linked  as  that  soul  and  form  are  linked 
By  a  covered  bridge  with  this. 

Yet  to  reach  that  realm  on  the  other  shore 
We  must  pass  through  a  transient  gloom, 

And  must  walk  unseen,  unhelped  and  alone 
Through  that  covered  bridge — the  tomb. 

But  we  all  pass  over  on  equal  terms, 

For  the  universal  toll 
Is  the  outer  garb  which  the  hand  of  God 

Has  flung  around  the  soul. 

Though  the  eye  is  dim  and  the  bridge  is  dark, 

And  the  river  it  spans  is  wide, 
Yet  faith  points  through  to  a  shining  mount 

That  looms  011  the  other  side. 

To  enable  our  feet,  in  the  next  day's  march, 

To  climb  up  that  golden  ridge, 
We  must  all  lie  down  for  a  one  night's  rest 

Inside  of  the  covered  bridge. 


WHAT  IS  TRUE  POETRY? 
How  many  squander  off  their  hours     But  has  a  fire  to  warm  itself 


In  rhyming  flea  with  tea, 
And  fondly  dream  it  constitutes 
The  soul  of  poetry! 

It  is  not  poetry  to  frame 
A  line  that  ends  with  chink, 

And  stretch  another  at  its  side 
That  ends  with  bobolink. 

True  poetry  is  never  decked — 
It  always  lives  undressed, 


Concealed  within  its  breast. 

Its  joy  is  this:  to  find  the  key, 

And  keep  it  in  control, 
Which  fits  the  lock  that  closes  up 

The  chambers  of  the  soul. 

And  then  it  labors  long  and  well 

To  learn  the  magic  art 
Of  throwing  on  a  screen  the  lights 

And  shadows  of  the  heart. 


DAVID  BARKER.  201 


THE  LIOX  AND  THE  SKUNK. 

A   DItEAM. 

I  met  a  lion  in  my  path, 

('T  was  on  a  dreary  autumn  night,) 
Who  gave  me  the  alternative, 

To  either  run  or  fight. 

I  dare  not  turn  upon  the  track, 
•  .       I  dare  not  think  to  run  away 
For  fear  the  lion  at  my  back 
Would  seize  me  as  his  prey. 

So,  summoning  a  fearless  air, 
Though  all  my  soul  was  full  of  fright, 

I  said  unto  the  forest  king, 
"I  will  not  run  butjiyht." 

We  fought,  and  as  the  fates  decreed, 
I  conquered  in  the  bloody  fray, 

For  soon  the  lion  at  my  feet 
A  lifeless  carcass  lay. 

A  little  skunk  was  standing  by 
And  noted  what  the  lion  spoke, 

And  when  he  saw  the  lion  die, 
The  lion's  tracks  he  took. 

He  used  the  lion's  very  speech, 
For,  stretching  to  his  utmost  height, 

He  gave  me  the  alternative 
To  either  run  or  fight. 

I  saw  he  was  prepared  to  fling 
Fresh  odors  from  his  bushy  tail, 

And  knew  those  odors  very  soon 
My  nostrils  would  assail. 

So,  summoning  an  humble  air, 
Though  all  my  soul  was  free  from  fright, 

I  said  unto  the  dirty  skunk, 
"I'll  run  but  will  not  fight." 

MOKAL. 

'  As  years  begin  to  cool  my  blood, 

I  rather  all  would  doubt  my  spunk, 
Than  for  a  moment  undertake 

To  fight  a  human  skunk. 
15 


202  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


STEAMBOAT  KNITTING. 

On  the  24th  of  August,  A.  D.,  1853,  an  aged  widow,  fully  clad  in  mourning,  sat  quietly 
and  busily  engaged  in  knitting  a  stocking  in  the  saloon  of  the  steamer  Penobscot,  on  her 
passage  from  Belfast  to  Bangor.  I  observed,  to  my  astonishment  two  young  women 
gorgeously  decked,  pointing  and  laughing  at  the  old  lady  with  her  knitting-work.  One 
of  the  maidens  referred  to  had  a  large  hole  in  the  heel  of  her  stocking.  The  foregoing 
Incident  suggested  the  following  lines  : 

Knit  on — let  "moderns"  giggle  if  they  will — 

Knit  on,  nor  squander  thine  allotted  time ; 
Knit  on,  old  matron,  and  my  poet's  quill 

Shall  tell  thy  virtues  in  these  measured  rhymes.  • 
Despite  of  idiot  laugh  and  pointless  joke, 
I  love  to  see  thee  at  thy  knitting-work. 

Thou  'mind'st  me  of  those  stormy  days,  old  dame, 
When  toil  like  thine  was  honored  more  than  now, 

When  stockingless,  through  blood  and  frost  and  flame, 
Our  fathers  won  fresh  laurels  for  the  brow ; 

When  "Mother  Bailey"  raised  her  warring  notes, 

And  furnished  wadding  from  her  petticoats. 

When  girls  were  made  to  "draw"  with  handle  mop 

In  "water  colors"  o'er  unfinished  room, 
And  taught,  on  washing  day,  a  "waltzing  hop," 

And  learned  their  "music"  at  the  wheel  and  loom; 
When  silk  or  satin,  or  the  flaunting  gauze, 
Was  bad  to  milk  in  when  the  cows  were  cross. 

When  man  of  brain  could  triumph  o'er  his  birth, 
When  all  but  monkeys  shaved  their  upper  lips, 

When  error  met  by  truth  was  "crushed  to  earth," 
When  lodge-room  was  the  only  place  for  "grips,' 

When  boys  had  fathers  (now  they  have  a  "Pa,") 

And  lived  a  space  'twixt  nursing  and  cigar. 

I  hate  to  see  the  meanest  reptile  die, 

I  hate  a  fop,  I  hate  a  mincing  prude ; 
I  hate  the  fret  of  sawdust  in  my  eye ; 

I  hate  a  thief,  I  hate  ingratitude ; 
But  from  mine  inmost  soul  far  worse  than  all 
I  hate  a  sneering  o'er  the  sweat  of  toil, 
And  worse  than  sin  I  hate  the  wretch  that  leads 
The  van  to  taunt  a  widow  in  her  weeds ; 
I  loathe  the  wretch — if  for  no  reason  other, 
I  have  myself  a  stricken,  widowed  mother. 


CHARLES  H.  PORTER.  203 


Charles  H.  Porter  was  born  (probably  in  Portland)  Dec.  6,  1816,  and  died,  in  New 
Orleans,  in  1841.  He  was  the  son  of  Samuel  Porter,  who  lived  in  Portland  and  Freeport, 
Me.,  and  whose  wife  was  Nancy,  or  Anne,  Storer.  Samuel  Porter  and  his  bi-others,  Sew- 
ard  and  William,  carried  on  shipbuilding  at  Porter's  Landing,  in  Freeport  ;  they  built 
the  privateers,  America  and  Dash,  during  the  War  of  1812.  Mr.  Porter's  talents  were  of 
a  high  order,  as  will  be  seen  by  the-following  : 


TO  A  BELOVED  FRIEND. 

I  cannot  blame  what  every  age  hath  shown 

Is  nature's  weakness,  that,  while  Fortune  smiled, 
Friends  nocked  around  me,  but  when  she  had  flown, 

The  most  forsook  adversity's  lone  child. 
And  thou  of  the  warm  heart  and  feelings  true, 

How  did  I  watch  thy  bark's  retreating  sail, 
That  bore  thee  far  across  the  waters  blue, 

To  brave  the  surges'  wrath,  the  sweeping  gale; 
Nor  thought  that  thou  in  a  far  distant  land 

Mid  strangers'  graves,  unknown,  unmarked  should  lie, 
That  I  should  never  grasp  again  thy  hand, 

Ne'er  more  should  meet  thy  kindly  beaming  eye. 
Perchance  the  cypress  o'er  thy  grave  is  waving 

Its  pensive  branches  'iieath  the  evening  sky, 
Emblem  of  him  whose  bosom  still  is  heaving 

For  thee,  thou  long  departed  one,  the  sigh. 


LOVE'S  BLIND. 

"Love's  blind,"  they  say, — an  olden  rule- 
But  he  who  made  it  was  a  fool; 
And  they  who  trust  him  are  not  wise, 
Love  rather  hath  a  thousand  eyes. 

"  Love 's  blind,"  they  say : — who  think  they  find 
Truth  here,  but  prove  themselves  are  blind; 
If  so,  how  could  his  arrows  fly 
With  such  unerring  certainty? 

I  thought  so,  till  from  Stella's  eye 
The  villain  let  an  arrow  fly; — 
It  came  so  straight  I  could  not  flee — 
And  proved  full  well  that  Love  can  see. 

Then  all  beware:— that  Love's  a  rogue, 
He  '11  either  come  to  you  incog, 
Or  else  he'll  say  to  you  "I'm  blind," 
And  thus  an  easy  entrance  find. 


204  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Susan  Francis  Preston  was  born  in  Norridgewock,  June,  1817.  She  was  a  niece  of 
Lydia  Maria  Child.  Not  long  after  her  school-girl  days,  her  family  removed  to  Bangor. 
There  she  was  married  to  Rev.  Dexter  Clapp,  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  who  was  settled  at 
one  time  in  West  Roxbury,  Mass.,  and  afterwards  was  the  successor  of  Rev.  Dr.  Flint,  of 
Salein.  She  died  in  1858. 

BON  A  VENTURA. 

Bonaventura,  four  miles  from  Savannah,  Ga..  is  the  resort  of  all  strangers  who  visit 
the  city.  Trees  and  moss  constitute  the  charm  of  the  place.  Long  rows  of  oaks  form 
avenues,  radiating  from  a  common  centre,  whose  intertwining  boughs  at  once  suggest 
the  idea  of  Gothic  arches.  Long,  gray,  fibrous  moss  hangs  thickly  from  all  these  trees, 
frequently  trailing  on  the  ground  in  its  luxuriant  growth,  making  the  daylight  dim,  and 
produciag  effects  of  still  and  solemn  beauty,  impossible  to  be  revealed  in  words. 

How  eloquent  are  all  thy  silent  trees 

O  Bonaventura!    Not  the  faintest  breeze 

Stirs  the  long  moss  from  all  thy  ancient  boughs, 

That  such  monastic  beauty  o'er  them  throws, 

So  calmly  there  in  rich  profusion  hung, 

As  if  its  graceful  drapery  had  been  flung 

From  heaven,  by  unseen  angel  hands,  to  screen 

From  din  and  dust  of  earth,  this  lovely  scene  I 

Through  all  thy  long,  cathedral  aisles,  T  hear 
Echoes  of  life  and  truth,  that  draw  me  near 
To  God  and  my  own  soul:  silent  I  stand 
In  holy  temple,  reared  by  Nature's  hand; 
Without  the  voice  of  priest,  or  chain  of  form, 
Grateful  I  worship,  till  my  heart  grows  warm 
With  love  to  Him  who  made  thy  trees,  thy  moss  and  me, 
And  brought  me  here  to-day  to  look  with  joy  on  thee. 


THE  MILL  STREAM. 

The  mill  stream  flows  o'er  common  ground, 
Yet  wandering  there,  I  stand  spell-bound; 
And  dreamy  thoughts  will  o'er  me  steal 
While  listening  to  the  water-wheel. 

As  round  it  rolls,  I  hear  a  chant 
Whose  music  grows  significant, 
Till  my  whole  being  is  possessed 
With  something  of  the  wheel's  unrest. 

Mine  ear  hath  caught  an  undertone 

To  which  my  soul  makes  answering  moan; 

Two  plaintive  voices  seem  to  meet, 

In  murmuring  eddies,  at  my  feet. 


CAROLINE  FLKTCIIKR  DOLE.  205 


Vague  longings,  when  answered  here, 
Foreshadowings  of  another  sphere, 
Now  join  the  water's  plaintive  flow, 
As  onward,  onward  still  they  go. 

Forever  striving  to  be  free, 

My  soul  is  in  strange  sympathy 

With  the  waters  basely  bound 

To  turn  the  mill-wheel  round  and  round. 

Within  man's  limitation  set, 
The  troubled  waters  foam  and  fret, 
But  left  unfettered  in  their  course, 
Glide  on  serenely  to  their  source. 


WHERE  ARE  THE  DEAD? 

Our  asking  hearts  must  meekly  wait, 
Nor  strive  to  lift  the  curtain  cloud 

Which  he  of  Nazareth  did  not  raise, 
Though  unto  death  his  head  He  bowed. 

No  word  from  out  the  heavens  will  come, 
Yet  are  we  taught  by  Hope  and  Love, 

That  He  whose  hand  upholds  the  stars, 
Builds  for  our  dead  fair  homes  above. 


praline 


^-^3.  Dole,  (Caroline  Fletcher)  born  in  Norridgewock,  July  22,  1817;  attended  such 
schools  as  the  village  afforded  till  15  years  old ;  afterwards,  for  a  time  in  school  else 
where.  Married,  June  16,  1842,  Rev.  Nathan  Dole,  pastor  of  the  First  Congregational 
Church  in  Brewer;  afterwards  editor  of  missionary  periodicals  in  the  Missionary  House 
in  Boston.  After  Mr.  Dole's  death,  which  occurred  in  1855,  she  returned  with  her  two 
sons  (one  little  daughter  having  died)  to  the  early  home— her  residence  since. 

THE  GRANDMOTHER. 

'Twas  in  our  country's  early  days, 

She  first  beheld  the  sun ; 
And  sweet  and  simple  were  her  ways, 

Till  all  her  days  were  done. 

In  her  fresh  years  the  wheel  and  loom 

Could  her  deft  hand  attest; 
Varied  her  tasks,  and  yet  no  gloom 

Life's  tasks  for  her  possessed. 


206  THE  I' GETS  OF  MAINE. 


Fair  little  maiden,  blue  her  eyes, 

With  flossy,  chestnut  hair, 
Cheeks  that  the  rose  had  lightly  touched, 

Lips  full  of  smiles  so  rare. 

The  scanty  schooling  of  the  times 

She  treasured  with  such  zest, 
That  ever  as  the  bravest  climbs, 

So  she  outstripped  the  rest. 

Methinks  we  see  the  bright,  young  face, 

Prompt  in  the  rural  school, 
So  full  of  eagerness  to  trace 

Each  lesson  and  each  rule. 

But  years  passed  on— and  then,  a  bride, 
She  formed  a  happy  home ; 

Herself  its  truest  joy  and  pride- 
None  cared  from  her  to  roam. 

The  heart  of  husband  and  of  child 

In  her  could  safely  trust; 
To  her  dependants  she  was  mild, 

And  steady,  firm  and  just. 

'Twas  hers  to  wipe  the  orphan's  tearr 

To  aid  the  weak  and  poor; 
She  had  for  woe  an  open  ear, 

And  sought  each  woe  to  cure. 

Griefs  came  to  her— but  tenderer  made 

The  heart  so  kind  before ; 
And  graces  new  around  her  played, 

Hiding  the  wounds  most  sore. 

Husband  and  little  ones  she  saw 

Laid  in  the  grave  away; 
But  Christ  had  wrought  in  her  his  law, 

"  Thy  will  be  done,"  to  say. 

So  patience,  like  a  beauteous  crown, 

From  day  to  day  she  wore; 
And  God  from  his  high  place  looked  down, 

Pleased  with  the  fruit  she  bore. 

At  length  old  age  came  stealing  on, 

Gentle,  serene,  and  sweet; 
We  knew  the  goil  was  almost  won, 

The  rounded  life  complete. 


CAROLINE  FLETCHEE  DOLE.  207 

And  now  her  very  features  took 

Expression  saintly,  pure ; 
Engraven  deep  in  memory's  book, 

A  picture  to  endure. 

But  as  the  full  and  ripened  sheaf 

Is  to  the  garner  borne, 
So  with  a  warning,  gentle,  brief, 

God  came  and  took  his  own. 

'Twas  on  the  holy  Sabbath  day, 

In  the  bright  summer  time, 
She  passed  beyond  our  sight  away, 

And  reached  the  heavenly  clime. 

Then  children's  children  rose  and  said, 

"Her  memory  shall  be  blessed;" 
And  blessed  be  the  sainted  dead, 

Endless  and  sweet  her  rest. 


AN  EASTER  SONG. 

Sun  of  this  morn,  uprising, 

Shine  forth  with  thy  brightest  r,ay; 
Lilies  bloom  out,  surmising 

'Tis  the  blessed  Easter  Dayl 

Early,  my  heart,  awaken, 
Thy  glorious  King  to  meet; 

Be  earthly  cares  forsaken, 
For  thought  of  His  presence  sweet. 

Put  on  thy  beauteous  garments, 
All  spotlessly  white  and  fair; 

Open  thy  closed  apartments 
To  breezes  of  heavenly  air. 

For  lo!  the  King  immortal 

Comes  forth  from  the  open  tomb; 
He  has  lighted  death's  dark  portal, 

And  has  scattered  all  its  gloom. 

Waken,  O  earth,  in  gladness, 

Greet  Him  with  music  and  song; 

Put  off  thy  shadows  and  sadness, 
And  rapturous  praises  prolong. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Welcome,  O  King  of  glory, 
Thou  conqueror  of  the  grave, 

With  joyful  tears  and  lowly 
We  bow,  and  Thy  feet  we  lave. 


WORK  FOR  CHRIST. 

"What  can  I  do  for  the  Master?" 

I  said  in  sadness  one  day ; 
"I  should  work  much  better  and  faster, 

For  life  is  fleeting  away." 

I  thought  of  the  poor,  marred  tissue,  - 

Wrought  for  his  critical  eye; 
And  I  prayed  for  a  fairer  issue, 

Of  the  shuttle  yet  to  fly. 

Tears  dimmed  my  eyes,  and  fell  thicker, 

But  I  needed,  for  avail, 
A  faith  that  should  burn  and  not  flicker, 

A  love  that  should  never  fail. 

"  What  shall  I  do  for  the  Master?" 

Again  to  myself  I  said ; 
"  I  must  use  much  better  and  faster 

The  rest  of  life's  precious  thread." 

And  a  small,  wan  child  now  waited, 

For  my  aid,  outside  the  door, 
Like  a  fluttering  bird,  belated, 

And  finding  its  nest  no  more. 

Then  shortly,  a  dusky  figure 
Peered  in,  on  my  startled  sight; 

And  he  asked,  with  sad,  pleading  gesture, 
For  the  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Light. 

But  ere  I  applied  my  lesson, 
Lo !  down  the  old  shaded  street, 

(Did  I  dream?)  a  vast  procession 
Came  onward,  with  weary  feet. 

I  could  never  paint  it  truly, 
With  skilfulest  painter's  brush, 

Or  portray  the  dark  shadows  duly, 
1  saw  in  that  twilight's  hush. 


LLVY  PENNEY.  209 


What  a  mass  of  upturned  faces, 
So  wild,  and  haggard,  and  low; 

Bearing  plainly  the  fearful  traces 
Of  sin,  and  disease,  and  woe ! 

Ah  me!  how  it  swelled  and  lengthened! 

"Will  it  never  end?"  I  sard; 
But  at  eve  it  was  only  strengthened, 

And  I  heard  its  heavy  tread. 

"See,  here  is  work!"  said  the  Master, 
"Think  you  it  can  bear  delay? 

Yes,  rise  and  work  better  and  faster, 
The  rest  of  life's  fleeting  day." 

"Inasmuch  as  for  these  ye  labor, 

I  accept  it  as  to  me; 
In  thy  poor  and  thy  needy  neighbor, 

Thy  Lord,  and  thy  Master  see!" 

Then  I  rose,  and  wrought  in  life's  tissue, 
Some  fair,  bright  colors  for  these; 

And  light  and  joy  was  the  issue, 
As  my  Lord  I  sought  to  please. 

And  I  said,  "  O  dearest  Master, 
Strengthen  thy  laborer's  hands, 

To  work  the  better  and  faster, 
Heeding  Thy  blessed  commands." 


The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  Shapleigh,  Aug.  5,  1817,  his  father's  name  being 
John  Penney,  and  his  mother's  maiden  name,  Jane  Hasty.  Mrs.  Penney  was  a  woman  of 
vivid  imagination  and  an  ardent  admirer  of  good  poetry,  and  it  was  from  her  that  Livy 
inherited  his  poetic  ability.  Our  author's  educational  advantages  in  early  life  were  lim 
ited,  and  as  soon  as  his  strength  would  allow,  he  was  obliged  to  assist  in  the  support  of  a 
large  family  of  brothers  and  sisters,  of  whom  he  was  the  oldest.  Mr.  Penney  has,  how 
ever,  been  a  frequent  and  valued  contributor  to  many  of  the  Maine  publications,  and 
some  of  his  poems  have  been  quoted  in  lecture  courses  given  in  his  section  of  the  State. 


TIME. 

Eternal  Time !  thy  boundless  reach 

Transcends  all  power  of  finite  thought, 
Cycles  and  centuries,  millions  each, 

With  tliee  contrasted  count  as  naught. 
No  sum  of  years,  however  vast, 

Numbers  the  ages  yet  to  be; 
The  eternal  round  of  ages  past, 

A  Deity  alone  can  see. 


210  THE  POETS  OF  MAL\L. 


One  tick  of  Time's  eternal  clock, 

And  nodding  oaks  their  branches  toss, 
Where  erst  the  barren  granite  rock   * 

Bore  but  the  lichen  and  the  moss; 
Another  tick,  and  cities  shine  , 

And  busy  hands  the  valleys  till, 
Avarice  explores  the  sparkling  mine; 

It  ticks  again,  and  all  is  still. 

Mute  as  the  silence  of  the  grave, 

While  countless  ages  vanish  by, 
Mountains  spring  smoking  from  the  wave 

And  lift  their  foreheads  to  the  sky. 
The  forest  rears  its  leafy  tent 

Where  once  the  rock-built  city  stood, 
And  o'er  its  ruins,  gray  and  rent, 

The  timid  partridge  leads  her  brood. 

Where  now  is  Babylon's  lofty  wall, 

Its  glittering  spires  and  temples  grand  ? 
Wrapt  in  oblivion's  coal-black  pall, 

Beneath  a  waste  of  shifting  sand. 
Its  mighty  hosts,  by  Time  subdued, 

Have  vanished  with  their  joys  and  woes; 
Euphrates  rolls  in  solitude 

Beside  the  spot  where  they  repose. 

Even  the  soil  whereon  we  tread, 

The  meadow,  field  and  flowery  glade, 
Was  once  the  ocean's  oozy  bed, 

Where  saurian  monsters  fought  and  played. 
And  just  such  fields  are  forming  now 

Beneath  the  ocean,  fathoms  deep, 
Where  hands,  now  dust,  shall  guide  the  plow, 

And  coming  nations  sow  and  reap. 

Ah,  who  shall  solve  the  problem  right, 

Whence  we  came,  or  whither  we  go, 
To  dark  oblivion's  dreamless  night, 

To  endless  years  of  joy  or  woe  ? 
Despite  all  theories,  I  ween, 

One  fact  is  clear  as  morning  light: 
The  Mind  that  runs  this  vast  machine 

Has  ample  power  to  run  it  right. 

When  science  and  religion  meet 
Ajid  walk  together  hand  in  hand, 

And  men  sit  humbly  at  their  feet 
The  laws  of  God  to  understand, 


THOMAS  HILL. 


211 


No  blood-stained  chief  his  crimes  shall  vaunt, 
Nor  armies  rush  with  foaming  steeds, 

And  man,  released  from  priestly  cant, 
Shall  worship  God  by  righteous  deeds. 


Pun/as  I///. 


Thomas  Hill,  D.  D.,  LL.  D.,  was  born  in  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  Jan.  7, 1818  ;  took  A. 
B.  degree  at  Harvard,  1843,  and  graduated  at  the  Cambridge  Divinity  School,  in  1845; 
settled  as  pastor,  Waltham,  Mass.,  1845;  succeeded  Horace  Mann  as  president  of  Anti- 
och  College,  Yellow  Springs,  Ohio,  1859-62  ;  and  was  president  of  Harvard  College  from 
1862  to  1868.  Dr.  Hill  was  settled  over  the  First  Parish  Church  in  Portland  in  1873, 
where  he  still  remains.  He  took  the  Scott  premium  of  the  Franklin  Institute,  for  an 
instrument  which  calculated  eclipses  and  occupations  ;  and  also  invented  the  nautrigon 
for  solving  spherical  triangles.  He  accompanied  Agassiz  around  South  America  in  1871 
and  1872.  Dr.  Hill  appears  as  a  poet  in  several  recent  collections  of  British  and  Ameri 
can  poetry  ;  and  a  small  volume  of  his  verse  under  the  caption  "  In  the  Woods  and  Else 
where,"  for  private  circulation,  was  printed  at  Portland,  in  1887. 


THE  HE  A  VEX  LY  GUEST. 
I  hear  a  gentle  tapping  at  the  door. 
Be  still  my  soul!  and  listen  to  the  word 
Of  Him  who  knocks,  and  pleadeth  evermore 
For  entrance;  'tis  thy  Saviour  and  thy  Lord. 

Oh,  why  so  slow  in  answering  His  call? 
Why  thus  reluctant  to  admit  thy  guest? 
All  springs  of  happiness  are  scant  and  small, 
Beside  His  loving  presence  in  the  breast. 

'Tis  love  alone  which  brings  Him  to  thy  door: 
'Twas  love  divine  which  sent  Him  unto  men; 
'Tis  pardon,  peace,  and  joy  forever  more, 
He  freely  gives.     Refuse  Him  not  again. 

Oh,  quickly  open,  at  His  gracious  call, 
And  gladly  welcome  so  divine  a  guest. 
Return  thy  love  for  His;  the  gift  is  small; 
While  He  gives  bliss  untold  and  endless  rest. 


THE  MIGHTY  CONQUEROR. 


From  the  midnight  of  the  grave, 
All  victorious,  strong  to  save, 
Comes,  refulgent  as  the  sun, 
Jesus,  God's  anointed  One. 

Darkness  he  has  driven  away; 
He  has  brought  immortal  day; 
Death  and  Hades  strive  in  vain 
Night  and  chaos  to  retain. 


Hail!  th ou  mighty  Conqueror! 
Wonderful  and  Counselor! 
King  of  Glory,  Prince  of  Peace  I 
Never  shall  thine  empire  cease. 

Jesus,  from  among  the  dead, 
Raises  his  triumphant  head; 
Sing  the  glad,  exultant  strain: 
Hell  is  conquered,  Death  is  slain! 


212  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  EARLIEST  FIRE-FLY. 

Fearless  little  pioneer, 
Leader  of  thy  race  this  year ! 
Tiny  spark  of  wondrous  light, 
Wandering  through  the  darksome  night, 
Strangely  pleasant  is  the  sight 
Of  thy  vague,  erratic  flight. 

Soon  thy  light  will  be  but  lost, 
Mid  thy  fellows'  brilliant  host, 
When  the  meadow  lands  shall  be 
Gay  with  mimic  galaxy. 

Finches  prophesy  the  spring, 
Bobolinks  its  blossoms  bring; 
But  thy  race,  with  bolder  cheer, 
Say  that  summer  now  is  here. 
Now  the  wild  grape  fills  the  air 
With  a  wealth  of  perfume  rare ; 
Roses  bloom  beside  the  way, 
Joy  and  fragrance  fill  the  day; 
Now  the  sunlight's  lengthened  hours 
Ring  with  song  and  glow  with  flowers. 
Leader  of  the  glittering  band, 
Soon  to  follow  thy  command, 
Welcome,  then,  thou  tiny  spark, 
Seen  against  the  woodland  dark. 

Who  had  taught  thee,  underground, 
Ere  thy  wings  thou  yet  hadst  found ; 
Who  had  taught  thee  thus  to  soar, 
Thus  to  flit  the  meadows  o'er, 
Ere  as  yet  thy  cheering  flame 
From  its  hiding  places  came? 

Never  yet  another's  light 
Having  met  thy  new-born  sight, 
How  wilt  thou  the  difference  know 
'Twixt  a  mate's  and  rival's  glow? 
How  distinguish,  in  the  dark, 
Either  from  a  glow-worm's  spark? 
Wonderful  the  mystery — 
What  shall  safely  pilot  thee, 
With  unerring  thread  of  fate 
To  thine  only  rightful  mate? 


THOMAS  HILL.  213 


Wanderer!  thus,  unto  my  sight, 
With  more  than  stellar  lustre  bright  I 
Ah!  how  gladly  would  I  share 
Courage  which  can  boldly  dare 
Thus  to  mount  on  untried  wing; 
Boldly  thus  thyself  to  fling, 
Whither  heart  within  thee  leads, 
Toward  higher  life  and  nobler  deeds. 

Thus  th ou  op' nest  to  mine  eye 
Scenes  above  this  star-paved  sky. 
He  who  guides  thy  feeble  race, 
Pours  on  man  a  richer  grace. 
Outward  eye  hath  never  seen 
Canaan's  fields  of  living  green; 
Outward  senses  hear  no  song 
Sung  the  eternal  choirs  among; 
But  the  Son  of  God  inspires 
In  his  saints,  those  warm  desires, 
And  that  strong,  unconquered  will 
Which  the  heart  with  rapture  fill. 
When  He  calls,  they  soar  away, 
Freed  from  all  this  mortal  clay, 
Finding  true  the  joyous  word: 
"Still  together  with  the  Lord." 


ANTIOPA. 

At  dead  of  night  a  southwest  breeze 

Came  silently  stealing  along; 
The  bluebird  followed,  at  break  of  day, 

Singing  his  low,  sweet  song. 

The  breeze  crept  through  the  old  stone-wall; 

It  wakened  the  butterfly  there; 
And  she  came  out,  as  morning  broke, 

To  float  through  the  sunlit  air. 

Within  this  stony,  rifted  heart, 

The  softening  influence  stole, 
Filling  with  melodies  divine 

The  chambers  of  my  soul; 

With  gentle  words  of  hope  and  faith, 

By  lips  now  sainted  spoken; 
With  vows  of  teiiderest  love  toward  me, 

Which  never  once  were  broken. 


214  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


At  morn  my  soul  awoke  to  life, 
And  glowed  with  faith  anew ; 

The  buds  that  perish  swelled  without, 
Within,  the  immortal  grew. 


meg 


This  philanthropic  and  noble  woman  was  born  in  Pittstield,  March  1,  1818,  being  the 
fifth  in  descent  from  George  Brown,  of  Scotland,  who  came  to  Boston  in  1667.  Her  abil 
ities  as  a  writer,  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  were  of  a  superior  order.  Her  influence  over 
young  people  was  sweet  and  powerful.  An  intelligent  young  woman  of  Brighton,  when 
in  doubt  as  to  the  right  or  propriety  of  an  action,  would  in  anxiety  say,—"  Would  Mrs. 
Hemmenway  think  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  do  this?"  Mrs.  Hemmenway  died  Dec. 
7,  1878.  The  text  at  her  funeral  was  from  words  she  used  often  to  repeat—"  There  shall 
be  no  night  there." 


WEAR  THE  SMILE  OF  GLADNESS. 

Ye  who  with  youth  and  beauty  beam, 
Come  wear  the  smile  of  gladness ; 

From  lips  and  eye  let  sunlight  gleam 
Unmixed  with  care  and  sadness. 

The  light  and  joy  of  that  bright  ray 
Some  saddened  eye  may  borrow, 

To  dry  the  tear  and  drive  away 
The  gloomy  cloud  of  sorrow. 

And  you  upon  the  noon  of  life, 
With  courage  high,  unbending, 

Be  hopeful,  zealous,  in  the  strife, 
The  right  and  truth  defending. 

You  're  blest  indeed,  who  daily  share 
The  smiles  of  those  you're  shielding; 

Will  you  to  discontent  and  care 
Like  weaker  ones  be  yielding  ? 

No— while  fond  words,  all  free  from  guile, 
Are  round  your  fireside  breathing, 

Then  let  the  smile  that  answers  smile, 
Your  eyes  and  lips  be  wreathing. 

And  you,  whose  heads  are  bowed  with  age, 

Be  cheerful,  unrepiiiing, 
And  when  you're  treading  life's  last  stage, 

Let  love  your  souls  be  fining. 


OEEICY  E.  B.  HEMMENWAY.  215 


As  radiant  falls  the  sunset's  glow, 

The  hill-tops  all  adorning, 
So  calmer  smiles  may  grace  your  brow, 

Than  when  in  youth's  bright  morning. 


A  DREAM  THAT  WAS  NOT  ALL  A  DREAM. 

The  shades  of  night  were  drawn  around  my  pillow, 
But  sleep  refused  to  bless  my  weary  head ; 

I  heard  the  winds  sweep  through  the  weeping  willow, 
While  my  sad  spirit  walked  above  the  dead. 

I  paused  a  moment  o'er  an  infant  sleeper, 
On  whose  pale  brow  my  earliest  tear-drops  fell, 

And  as  I  thoughtful  stood,  my  grief  grew  deeper 
For  that  sweet  flower  my  childhood  loved  so  well. 

I  sought  the  parents  where  I  left  them  leaning 

With  tearful  eyes  above  that  little  bed; 
But  newer  graves  bespoke  the  solemn  meaning, 

They  too  were  slumbering  with  the  unconscious  dead. 

And  further  on  was  early  manhood  lying, 
A  mother's  staff,  a  father's  hope  and  pride. 

Who  chilled  the  life  of  those  he  left  when  dying, 
But  now  they're  calmly  sleeping  by  his  side. 

I  read  the  names  of  mothers  long  departed, 

Where  moss  had  gathered  through  the  distant  years, 

Where  helpless  children,  husbands  broken  hearted, 
Had  oft  bedewed  their  silent  bed  with  tears. 

And  other  stones  the  truthful  tales  were  telling, 

That  all  their  tears  in  death's  long  sleep  were  dried; 

I  wandered  on  and  passed  the  silent  dwelling 
Of  many  a  friend  reposing  side  by  side. 

Thus  did  I  roam  beneath  the  mournful  willow, 
Till  life  looked  worthless,  as  its  joys  are  brief, 

When  in  kind  slumbers  on  my  tear-wet  pillow, 
I  found  a  balm  for  all  my  helpless  grief. 

No  more  I  walked  where  cypress  branches  quiver, 
To  weep  o'er  treasures  in  the  dark,  cold  tomb, 

But,  lo !  I  stood  beside  a  crystal  river, 

Where  trees  were  waving  in  immortal  bloom. 


216  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  glorious  forms  around  the  throne  were  bending, 
In  robes  of  white  with  golden  harps  in  hand, 

And  joyful  voices  in  those  strains  were  blending, 
Of  sinless  groups  around  that  happy  land. 

I  heard  blest  souls  with  thankful  voices  telling 
To  those  who  reached  that  blessed  land  before, 

How  much  they  suffered  in  their  earthly  dwelling, 
Not  knowing  then  why  such  great  griefs  they  bore. 

But  oh!  what  bliss  had  crowned  their  life  of  trial, 
Now  the  rehearsal  of  their  severed  love, 

Their  nights  of  weeping,  days  of  self-denial, 
But  served  to  heighten  all  their  joys  above. 

And  blesse'd  saints  through  faith  in  Christ,  ascending, 
Were  ever  swelling  that  unnumbered  throng, 

Where  all  the  harps  and  all  the  tongues  were  blending 
In  one  glad  strain,  in  one  triumphant  song. 

Then  ceased  my  tears  for  those  I'd  long  been  weeping, 
And  sorrow  fled  like  morning  clouds  away, 

And  left  a  halo  round  my  loved  ones  sleeping, 

That  changed  death's  night  to  bright,  immortal  day. 

O  what  is  love,  and  all  the  sweet  communion 
That  faithful  friends  in  joy  or  grief  have  known, 

Compared  with  that  which  in  a  sweet  reunion 
Blest  spirits  taste  around  G;>d's  glorious  throne. 


/*      lbion 


John  A.  Andrew  was  born  in  Wimlham,  May,  1818,  and  was  fitted  for  college  at  Gor- 
haru  Academy,  under  Rev.  Reuben  Nason.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  in  the 
class  of  1837,  pursued  legal  studies  in  the  office  of  the  late  H.  W.  Fuller.  Esq.,  of  Boston, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  Suffolk  Bar.  His  college  life  was  "the  flow  of  generous 
impulses  and  noble  purposes,  rather  than  the  display  of  brilliant  talents  and  extraordi 
nary  scholarship.  Indeed,  as  may  be  said  of  many  others,  his  public  career  developed 
more,  shining  qualities  and  higher  traits  of  genius  than  his  early  friends  anticipated."  As 
is  well  known,  his  is  a  conspicuous  name  in  the  political  annals  of  Massachusetts.  In 
1859  he  was  in  the  lower  house  of  its  Legislature,  and  in  ISfiO  was  elected  Governor  of 
the  State  at  a  critical  emergency  in  State  and  Nation,  and  through  his  uncommon  ability 
and  fitness,  by  general  consent,  acquired  the  title  of  "  the  great  war  governor."  On 
retiring  from  oftice,  in  1866,  he  declined  various  honorable  and  lucrative  positions,  resum 
ing  the  practice  of  law,  which  became  extensive  and  remunerative.  On  the  evening  of 
the  30th  of  October,  1867,  he  was  seized  with  apoplexy  while  sitting  with  his  family,  and 
survived  but  a  few  hours.  His  remains  were  interred  in  Hingham.  A  statue  of  marble 
has  been  placed  in  the  State  House  at  Boston.  A  writer  in  the  Portlatvl  Transcript 
recurs  to  an  early  reminiscence  of  Gov.  Andrew.  "  It  was  the  custom  of  the  graduating 
members,"  he  writes,  "  in  our  day,  at  Bowdoin,  to  pass  round  the  college  album  for  auto 
graphs,  not  confining  the  mission  exclusively  to  those  of  the  same  class,  but  extending  it 
to  other  circles  ad  libitum.  Among  the  only  relics  left  by  the  ravages  of  two  destruc 
tive  conflagrations  in  Portland  is  one  of  these  albums,  in  "which  this  early  friend  thus 
autographs  his  genial  character,  no  less  than  his  penmanship  :  " 


FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD.  217 

ALBUM  TRIBUTE. 

JOHN   ALBION   ANDREW,  OF   THE   JUNIOR  CLASS,  1836. 

May  years  of  gladness,  friend,  be  thine, 

Few  tears  of  sorrow  dim  thy  joy; 
Few  be  the  weeds  that  you  may  twine 

'Round  memory's  wreath,  in  sad  alloy. 
Of  life's  best  pleasures,  bright  and  pure, 

That  poets  sing,  in  sweet-toned  lays, 
And  hopes  fulfilled,  friends  true  and  sure, 

Be  the  bright  sunshine  of  thy  days. 


J. 

Mrs.  Frances  S.  Osgood,  known  in  literary  circles  as  "  Una  Locke,"  was  born  in  Maine 
probably  Saco,  in  1811.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Joseph  Locke,  and  was  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  gifted  authors  of  her  time.  She  wrote  several  volumes  of  poetry  among 
them  "  A  Wreath  of  Wild  Flowers  from  New  England."  Mrs.  Osgood  died  in  1850 


MAY  DAY  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 
Can  this  be  May?    Can  this  be  May  ? 
We  have  not  found  a  flower  to-day ! 
We  roamed  the  wood— we  climbed  the  hill— 
We  rested  by  the  rushing  rill — 
And,  lest  they  had  forgot  the  day, 
We  told  them  it  was  May,  dear  May  I 
We  called  thee,  sweet  wild  blooms,  by  name, 
We  shouted,  and  no  answer  came ! 
From  smiling  field,  or  solemn  hill— 
From  rugged  rock,  or  rushing  rill — 
We  only  bade  the  pretty  pets 
Just  breathe  from  out  their  hiding-places ; 
We  told  the  little,  light  coquettes 

They  need  n't  show  their  bashful  faces 

"One  sigh,"  we  said,  "one  fragrant  sigh, 

Will  soon  discover  where  you  lie!" 

The  roguish  things  were  still  as  death— 

They  wouldn't  even  breathe  a  breath. 

Alas!  there's  none  so  deaf,  I  fear, 

As  those  who  do  not  choose  to  hear! 

We  wandered  to  an  open  place, 

And  sought  the  sunny  butter-cup, 

That  so  delighted  in  your  face 

Just  like  a  pleasant  smile  looks  up. 

We  peeped  into  a  shady  spot, 

To  find  the  blue  "Forget-me-not!" 

At  last  a  far-off  voice  we  heard, 

A  voice  as  of  a  fountain-fall, 

16 


218  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


That  softer  than  a  singing  bird 

Did  answer  to  our  merry  call! 

So  wildly  sweet  the  breezes  brought 

That  tone  in  every  pause  of  ours, 

That  we,  delighted,  fondly  thought 

It  must  be  talking  of  the  flowers ! 

We  knew  the  violets  loved  to  hide 

The  cool  and  lulling  wave  beside : — 

With  song,  and  laugh,  and  bounding  feet, 

And  wild  hair  wandering  on  the  wind, 

We  swift  pursued  the  murmurs  sweet; 

But  not  a  blossom  could  we  find; — 

The  cowslip,  crocus,  columbine, 

The  violet,  and  the  snow-drop  fine, 

The  orchis  'iieath  the  hawthorn  tree, 

The  blue-bell  and  anemone, 

The  wild-rose,  eglantine,  and  daisy, 

Where  are  they  all  ?— they  must  be  lazy ! 

Perhaps  they're  playing  "Hide-and-seek!" 

Oh,  naughty  flowers!  why  don't  you  speak  ? 

We  have  not  found  a  flower  to-day — 

They  surely  cannot  know  'tis  May — 

You  have  not  found  a  flower  to-day ! — 

What's  that  upon  your  cheek,  I  pray? 

A  blossom  pure,  and  sweet,  and  wild, 

And  worth  all  nature's  blooming  wealth; 

Not  all  in  vain  your  search,  my  child! — 

You've  found  at  least  the  rose  of  health! 

The  golden  buttercup,  you  say, 

That  like  a  smile  illumes  the  way, 

Is  nowhere  to  be  seen  to-day ! 

Fair  child !  upon  that  beaming  face 

A  softer,  lovelier  smile  I  trace ; 

A  treasure,  as  the  sunshine  bright — 

A  glow  of  love  and  wild  delight ! — 

Then  pine  no  more  for  Nature's  toy — 

Yes !  in  a  heart  so  young  and  gay, 

And  kind  as  yours,  'tis  always  May! 

For  gentle  feelings,  Love,  are  flowers 

That  bloom  through  life's  most  clouded  hours! 

Ah!  cherish  them,  my  happy  child, 

And  check  the  weeds  that  wander  wild; 

And  while  their  stainless  wealth  is  given, 

In  incense  sweet,  to  earth  and  heaven, 

No  longer  will  you  need  to  say — 

"  Can  this  be  May  ?    Can  this  be  May  ?" 


JANE  MARIA  MEAD.  219 


ria  Jiteact. 


Jane  Maria  Mead,  a  native  of  Paris,  Me.,  was  born  on  the  31st  day  of  December,  1811. 
Her  father  was  a  physician,  a  graduate  of  the  College  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons  inN.  Y. 
When  Jane  was  a  little  girl,  he  migrated  to  the  West.  Since  the  year  1834  her  home  has 
been  in  Ohio.  In  1835,  she  was  married  to  Whitman  Mead,  a  prominent  lawyer  in  Northern 
Ohio  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  but  who  has,  for  the  most  part,  exchanged  Blackstone  and 
the  subtleties  of  the  law  for  the  more  congenial  pursuit  of  farming.  He  resides  near  the 
town  of  Medina.  Mrs.  Mead  has  been,  since  1850,  an  occasional  writer  for  The  Louis 
ville  Journal  and  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  was  one  of  the  regular  contributors  of 
The  Genius  of  the  West  in  Cincinnati,  from  1853  to  1856.  Her  writings  are  marked  by  ele 
vation  of  thought,  and  purity  of  style,  and  her  poetry  partakes  largely  of  a  sober  devo 
tional  feeling,  which  indicates  her  puritan  ancestry.  The  Louisville  Journal  said  of  her 
poems  :  "They  are  pure  diamonds,  polished  by  the  most  skilful  art."  Saysone  of  her 
Maine  friends,  Mrs.  E.  C.  Durgin,  of  Deering  :  "  I  saw  Mrs.  Mead  in  1886,  when  she  was 
visiting  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Weston,  of  Deering.  This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  been 
in  Maine  since,  in  her  sixteenth  year,  she  visited  it  with  her  mother.  She  was  now  near 
ly  seventy-four  ;  her  hair  was  silver — a  very  '  crown  of  glory,'  and  the  wonderful  beauty 
gathered  from  many  years  of  Christian  womanhood  with  its  keen  joys  and  bitter  sorrows, 
and  of  a  poet's  thought  and  feeling,  shone  from  her  large,  dark  eyes.  For  nearly  fourteen 
years  she  has  been  a  widow ;  and  her  present  home  is  with  a  son  who  is  rector  of  an 
Episcopal  Church  in  Niagara,  Canada.  She  has  two  other  sons  who  are  clergymen  of  the 
same  communion.  Her  intellect  is  still  vigorous  ;  and  wit,  wisdom  and  words  of  tender, 
Christian  counsel,  and  comfort  and  hope  still  come  from  her  pen,  from  time  to  time."  For 
the  first  part  of  this  sketch  we  are  indebted  to  a  poetical  work  issued  at  Chicago,  in 
which  Mrs.  Mead  has  a  prominent  place. 


NATIONAL  ODE. 

Columbia !  lift  thy  starry  eyes, 

And  weep  o'er  ruined  hopes  no  more; 
The  sun  still  shines  in  yonder  skies, 

Though  lightnings  leap  and  thunders  roar; 
Then  from  thy  garments  shake  the  dust, 

And  smooth  thy  brow,  and  smile  at  care : 
Daughter  of  Heaven!  'tis  thine  to  trust, 

And  never  breathe  the  word  despair. 
Our  fearless  sires — uncheered,  unshod — 
Through  fire  and  flood  and  tempest  trod, 
And  conquered  "in  the  name  of  God." 

Comrades !  the  very  stars  have  stooped 

To  light  the  hero  on  his  way; 
Through  war  and  peace  in  glory  grouped, 

Undimmed,  their  beams  of  splendor  play. 
They  lead  the  legions  of  the  free; 

They  watch  above  the  soldier's  bier; 
They  guard  our  rights  on  land  and  sea — 

In  doubt,  in  darkness,  doubly  dear: 
Through  years  of  peace,  'neath  war-clouds  deep, 
Till  death,  will  every  father's  son 
Defend  the  flag  our  fathers  won. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Can  we  forget  the  men  that  trode 

The  ranks  of  death  with  iron  will  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  blood  that  flowed 

At  Lexington  and  Bunker's  Hill  ? 
No  !  by  the  memory  of  the  brave 

Who  sleep  in  glory's  hallowed  bed — 
By  every  sainted  mound  and  wave, 

Each  drop  of  blood,  for  freedom  shed, 
Shall  prove  a  seed  will  rise  again— 
A  harvest  vast,  of  mighty  men, 
Invincible  with  sword  and  pen.* 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  stripes  must  wave,  the  stars  must  burn, 
While  mountains  rise,  or  rivers  roll. 

To  them  the  world's  oppressed  shall  turn, 
To  them  th'  oppressor  look  with  awe, 

And  learn  a  tyrant's  arm  is  clay, 
A  tyrant's  sceptre  but  a  straw ; 

And  till  the  reign  of  wrong  gives  way, 
Above  our  father's  martyred  dust, 
We  swear :     Our  swords  shall  right  the  Just, 
Or  ever  in  their  scabbards  rust! 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

INSCRIBED   TO    MISS    E.    C.    DURGIN,    OF    DEERING,    MAINE. 

TO-DAY,  though  we  have  sorrow, 

To-night,  though  we  have  fear. 
God  has  a  glad  TO-MORROW 

Hid  somewhere  in  the  Year. 
Let  sudden  storms  assail  us — 

They  purify  the  air; 
God's  rainbow  cannot  fail  us, 

His  promise  foils  despair. 

There  never  is  a  shadow 

That  looms  upon  the  day, 
But  has  a  sun  behind  it, 

Or  some  effulgent  ray. 
When  a  profane  enchanter 

Springs  up,  the  world  to  harm; 
God  sends  some  great  supplanter 

To  work  a  counter-charm. 

•This prophetic  verse  was  fulfilled  during  our  late  Civil  War. 


JANE  MARIA  MEAD.  221 

Mourn  not  good  seed,  that's  sleeping 

Beneath  the  dust  and  mould; 
'Twill  yet  repay  your  reaping, 

A  thousand,  thousand  fold. 
Mourn  not  for  lost  endearments ; 

You'll  win  the  bliss  you  crave, 
When  Love  has  dropped  his  cerements, 

And  risen  from  his  grave. 

True  love  and  fond  affection 

Survive  death's  cruel  dart; 
A  joyful  resurrection 

Awaits  the  pure  in  heart. 
TO-DAY, — sin, — loss, — and  sorrow, 

And  pain,— and  death,— and  tears;— 
But  life  and  joy  TO-MORKOW, 

Through  God's  eternal  Years ! 


PATRICK  O'NEIL. 

Who's  the  lass  I  see  spinning  her  flax  at  the  wheel  ? 
'Tis  Katie;  she's  promised  to  Patrick  O'Neil. 
O  Katie,  sweet  Katie,  I've  hunted  ye  long, 
Through  County  Roscommon — me  brogans  are  strong. 

The  lakes  and  the  rivers— I've  paddled  'em  o'er, 
And  niver  touched  land  till  I  got  to  the  shore. 

0  where  hev  ye  bin  wid  yer  naughty  blue  eyes  ? 
To  set  cunnin'  traps  for  the  illegant  by'ys  ? 

No  wonder  yer  cheeks  are  so  rosy,  at  all; 
For  didn't  ye  dance  wid  Tom  Hughes  at  the  ball? 
And  didn't  ye  put  the  ole  clogs  quite  away 
For  slippers  I  give  ye  last  Michaelmas  Day  ? 

1  bought  for  yer  neck,  that's  so  swan-like  and  white, 
The  blue  beads  and  breast-knot  ye  sported  that  night. 
And  did  n't  the  pansies  look  brave  in  yer  hair  ? 

For  shame— the  nice  pansies  I  got  at  the  fair! 

And  didn't  Tom  wait  on  ye  home  to  the  gate  ? 
And  why  did  he  do  it  ?— To  stand  there— and  prate. 
Ah !  Katie,  I  spare  ye— but  only  for  once, 
One  last  hint  I  giv'  ye,  have  done  with  the  dunce. 


THE  POE'lti  OF  MAINE. 


'Tis  Patrick  O'Neil  that  is  telling  ye  this; 

He's  no  thief,  like  Tom  Hughes,  at  stealing  a  kiss; 

Tom  Hughes  is  polite  as  a  peacock,  I  own; 

But  what  is  a  peacock — let  feathers  alone. 

The  lakes  o'  Killarney  are  lovely  to  see, 

And  Katie  shall  rock  on  their  bosoms  wid  me, 

If  she,  to  O'Neil,  will  but  vow  to  be  true, 

While  grasses' are  green  and  the  heavens  are  blue. 

Now  where  is  the  lass,  either  up  hill  or  down, 
Can  match  the  swate  print  that  I  got  for  yer  gown  ? 
Yer  little  straw-hat,  'tis  a  nate  one,  I  know; 
The  shiners  that  bought  it  I  aimed  wid  me  hoe. 

The  pig  and  the  cabin,  ye  know  very  well, 
Were  got  wid  the  praties  O'Neil  raised  to  sell. 
And  the  peat — there's  the  peat — a  hape  of  it,  sure; 
Enough  for  the  winter.     AVho  tells  ye  I'm  poor  ? 

There's  White  Face — most  paid  for — and  sure,  her  red  calf, 
Will  blate  till  the  cabin  will  ring  wid  his  laugh. 
So  let  Tommy  go — or  ye  niver  shall  feel 
A  ring  on  yer  finger  from  Patrick  O'Neil. 


AT  THE  OLD  HOME. 

I've  seen  the  same  old  town  again, 

The  home  where  first  my  mother  smiled, 
The  same — yet  not  the  same— as  when 

It  knew  me  as  a  happy  child. 
That  home  to  fond  hearts  firmly  wed 

By  pleasant  memories  of  old — 
Of  summer  meads,  with  berries  red, 

Of  autumn  fields,  with  shocks  of  gold; 

Of  wayside  maples,  which  still  weave 

Their  shadows  broad ;  of  that  soft  light, 
Which,  glinting  on  each  birchen  leaf, 

Sifts  clown  and  makes  the  landscape  bright. 
There  ferns  in  woodland  shades  abound ; 

There  ancient  oaks  and  hemlocks  stand; 
There  stately  firs  adorn  the  ground, 

And  pines  are  monarchs  of  the  land. 

When  genial  airs  awake  the  flowers, 

Up  peeps  the  same  blue  violet; 
The  golden-rod,  through  suns  and  showers — 

Just  as  of  old — is  golden  yet. 


HARRIET  THAYER  TRACY.  223 

The  rose  and  lilacs  shed  perfume 

Unstinted,  as  in  early  days; 
And  buttercups  and  asters  bloom 

Beside  the  quiet  country  ways. 

To  see  that  cherished  spot  become 

Re-peopled,  as  it  was  of  yore, 
And  be  a  dweller  in  that  home, 

I'd  be  a  child — a  child  once  more; 
Yea,  twice  a  child — to  quaff  anew 

Delicious  draughts  from  that  cool  well, 
And  roam  the  tempting  orchard  through, 

In  autumn,  where  the  apples  fell; 

To  hear,  beneath  bird-haunted  skies, 

The  tall  pines  murmur  of  the  sea, 
And  fondly  dream  that  angel  eyes, 

Through  some  blue  rift,  look  down  on  me. 
But  where  are  they,  who  lent  a  charm 

To  all  that  in  those  prospects  lay  ? 
Who  gave  brisk  life  to  shop  and  farm, 

To  mill  and  woodland— where  are  they  ? 

Go — seek  their  places  of  repose, 

Those  silent  cities  of  the  dead : 
Earth's  wealth  to  them— its  joys  and  woes, 

There  end  in  each  low,  narrow  bed. 
But,  ah !  their  names  are  held  akin 

To  precious  jewels,  set  apart 
From  common  things  and  locked  within 

The  sacred  casket  of  the  heart. 


Mrs.  Harriet  T.  Tracy  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  chief  proprietor  of  the  original 
grant  of  the  township  of  Turner,  Maine,  Rev.  Charles  Turner,  her  grandfather,  for 
whom  the  town  was  named.  She  was  born  in  Turner,  March  7,  1817.  Mrs.  Tracy  was 
invited  by  the  committee  to  prepare  a  tribute  for  the  occasion  of  the  one  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  settlement  of  Turner,  and  sent  the  following  from  her  home  in  Sacra 
mento,  California. 


CENTENNIAL  GREETING. 

FROM   SACRAMENTO,  CAT,.,  TO    TURNER,  ME.,  JULY   7,  1886. 

O  home  of  my  youth — O  town  of  my  birth! 

In  fond  recollection,  the  dearest  on  earth ! 

The  sweet  dreams  of  childhood  embellish  thee  still, 

Like  idyls  of  poets  whose  volumes  they  fill. 


224  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

O  land  of  my  birth— O  home  of  my  youth ! 
Where  our  hearts  received  their  first  impress  of  truth, 
Where  our  eyes  first  oped  to  the  beauties  of  earth, — 
We  ne'er  can  forget  the  sweet  land  of  our  birth. 

Ah!  who  can  tell  rightly  the  emotions  that  swell, 
Recalling  my  native  place — spot  loved  so  well; 
And  as  her  children  chance  to  meet  011  this  centennial  day, 
Accept  these  heartfelt  greetings  of  a  daughter  far  away. 

The  grand  old  stately  oaks  that  shade  our  western  plain 
Would  waft  a  whispered  greeting  to  the  pine-clad  hills  of  Maine, 
While  Sacramento  river,  freighted  with  its  ore, 
Would  greet  the  Androscoggin  upon  the  eastern  shore. 

Thy  many  sons  and  daughters,  wherever  they  may  roam, 
Will  join,  this  anniversary  day,  to  greet  you  all  at  home; 
For  neither  time  nor  distance  can  from  their  heart  efface 
The  memories  of  those  days  of  old  within  that  hallowed  place — 

The  town  of  Turner— honored  with  my  grandsire's  name, 
A  man  in  learning  famous  and  patriotic  fame— 
A  loyal  man — most  worthy  of  his  loved  ones'  praise, 
That  children  join  to  render  in  these  latter  days. 

With  mingled  joy  and  sadness,  we  here  review  the  past, 
But  ever  will  be  thankful  that  our  own  lot  was  cast 
Where  piety  and  learning  have  always  held  the  sway, 
To  guide  in  paths  of  honor  and  usefulness  the  way. 

Some  paths  have  led  our  country's  holy  cause  to  save, 
And  plant  the  sacred  principles  our  early  fathers  gave; 
Some  to  the  fields — the  arts — the  legislative  halls, 
All  ready  to  respond  wherever  duty  calls. 

Some  on  our  golden  shores  have  found  a  pleasant  home, 
And  some  have  passed  forever  the  golden-gate  beyond; 
From  east  to  west,  wherever  thy  honored  sons  are  found, 
This  day  they're  doubly  welcome  to  that  hallowed  ground. 

And  thus  thy  children  pass  from  infancy  to  age ; 
In  devious  paths  of  duty's  call  they  busily  engage; 
A  loyal  people  ever  to  the  world  and  God, — 
May  future  ages  still  their  worthy  acts  record. 


GEORGE  W.  LAME.  225 


m 


G.  W.  Lamb,  son  of  Rev.  George  Lamb,  of  Brunswick,  was  born  May,  1818,  and  gradu 
ated  from  Bowdoin  College  in  the  class  of  1837.  Notwithstanding  his  sufferings  from  ill 
health  during  his  college  course,  his  talents  and  perseverance  gave  him  a  high  stand  as  a 
scholar.  After  two  years  in  the  Cambridge  Law  School,  he  went  to  New  Orleans  and  set 
tled.  There  he  gained  the  confidence  and  esteem  of  all  who  knew  him.  In  the  midst  of 
the  most  favorable  prospects,  and  while  making  himself  highly  useful  by  his  talents  and 
integrity,  he  was  suddenly  cut  down  by  the  yellow  fever,  August,  1853.  His  remains 
were  conveyed  to  the  place  of  his  birth.  Resolutions  passed  soon  after  his  death,  at  a 
meeting  of  the  New  Orleans  Bar,  pay  a  just  tribute  to  his  classical  scholarship  and  to  his 
high  attainments  in  modern  literatiire. 


SPIRIT  VOICES. 

In  the  silent  greenwood  glade, 
In  the  dim  old  forest  shade, 

By  the  rushing  river, — 
There  are  sweet  low  voices  singing, 
Music  on  the  soft  breeze  flinging, 

And  they  haunt  me  ever. 

In  the  star-crowned,  quiet  night, 
Ringing  from  the  moonlit  height, 

Whispering  from  the  vale, 
From  the  swinging,  leafy  bough, 
And  the  dewy  flowers  below, 

Murmuring  still  their  tale. 

'T  is  of  days  long  passed  away, 
'Tis  of  forms  now  cold  in  clay 

These  sweet  voices  tell  me. 
At  the  memories  they  bring, 
Tears  and  smiles  together  spring 

From  the  heart's  deep  swell. 

Old  friends  again  about  me  stand, 
And  once  more  the  clasping  hand 

And  the  kindling  eye, 
Better  far  than  words  can  do, 
Tell  that  hearts  are  warm  and  true 

As  in  days  gone  by. 

And,  as  these  sweet  visions  throng, 
Joyous  laughs  with  many  a  song 

On  the  charmed  air  swell, 
And  strike  upon  the  dreaming  brain 
Till  the  old  time  seems  back  again— 

The  old  time  loved  so  well. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Ever  thus  in  greenwood  glade 
And  in  the  deep  forest  shade 

And  by  the  rushing  river, 
There  are  sweet,  low  voices  singing, 
Music  to  the  soft  breeze  flinging, 

And  they  haunt  me  ever. 


jjlachtq. 

5.  1318,  and  was 

there  until  her 
of  a  clergyman, 
hree  years.  Her 

fc«  «n      f1"  a     °     ?aP,er  at  Norridgewock.  in  1838  ;  since  then  she  has  written  more  or 
less,  sometimes  regularly  for  a  few  years,  for  different  papers  and  periodicals. 


Blacker  was  born  in  Norridgewock.  Sept.  5.  1818,  and  was  reared  and  edu- 
,gf°0K   °  ,0?o      l<?  tovvn'  havinS  her  hoine  there  until  her  marriage   which 
several  ,      ™  J?S,        XT  ^"1Ce  .Vlat,time'  as  the  wife  of  a  clergyman,  she  hal  lived  in 
3isn£&  -Herfirst  P°em  ™ 


DAILY  TRIALS. 
Oh,  strong  and  brave  the  heart  may  be, 

To  bear  the  heavy  woes  of  life  ; 
It  fails  most  oft  at  petty  ills, 

With  which  each  passing  day  is  rife. 

We  gird  ourselves  with  armor  strong, 
To  meet  some  mighty  wrong  or  ill  ; 

Proudly  defy  the  threatened  harm, 
And,  conquering,  boast  the  power  of  will 

Anon,  a  trifle  light  as  air, 

A  careless  word,  —  a  look,  —  a  tone,  — 
Makes  shipwreck  of  our  boasted  power; 

Endurance,  strength,  alike  are  gone. 


THE  PRESENT. 

A  song  of  the  Present,— the  unwritten  Now, 

Whether  age,  youth,  or  manhood  is  stamped  on  the  brow; 

Of  the  days  that  are  lent  us  by  Heaven's  behest, 

To  prepare  for  the  future  and  heavenly  rest. 

The  past  lies  behind  us  with  memories  filled,; 
Of  hopes  that  have  perished,  of  wishes  fulfilled, 
Of  joys  that  have  vanished,  of  joys  that  remain, 
Of  friends  that  have  left  us  to  come  not  again. 

The  future  before  us  is  hid  from  our  sight; 
Time's  changes  alone  shall  reveal  it  to  light, 
The  present  is  with  us,  though  fleeting  full  fast, 
Its  moments  swift  hastening  to  blend  with  the  past. 


MARTHA  WALDRON  BLACKER.  227 


Each  day  in  the  drama  of  life  hath  a  part, 
Bringing  pleasure  or  grief  to  each  beating  heart, 
And  the  tablet  of  time  hath  a  record  true 
Of  the  deeds  left  undone  and  the  deeds  that  we  do. 

There  are  dear  ones  to  cherish,  kind  words  to  say, 
Faint  hearts  to  solace  in  life's  rugged  way; 
There  is  succor  to  give  to  the  brother  in  need, 
The  fallen  to  lift  and  the  hungry  to  feed. 

There  are  wrongs  to  be  righted, — who  of  us  shall  dare 

Kef  use  in  this  God-given  work  to  share  ? 

There  is  work  for  us  all ;  let  us  do  it  in  love ; 

Let  us  merit  the  meed  of  "  Well  done"  from  above. 


TRUST  IN  GOD. 

Hope  on  and  hope  ever;  yield  not  to  despair; 

Though  thick  in  thy  pathway  lies  many  a  care; 

Though  silent  is  love's  voice,  and  friendship's  sweet  tone, 

Let  thy  motto  be,  ever,  tk  Despair  not;  hope  on," 

And  firm  let  thy  trust  be  in  Heaven. 

Have  those  thou  hast  trusted  and  tenderly  loved 
To  thine  own  dearest  interests  traitorous  proved  ? 
Thy  fond  hopes  been  crushed  by  adversity's  breath  ? 
The  voice  of  thy  loved  ones  been  silenced  in  death  ? 
Still,  firm  let  thy  trust  be  in  Heaven. 

Perchance  thy  warm  heart  is  now  gushing  with  grief, 
For  sorrows  for  which  thou  canst  find  no  relief; 
To  God  let  thy  prayers  and  thy  wishes  ascend ; 
Distrust  not  His  goodness;  to  Him  humbly  bend, 
And  firm  let  thy  trust  be  in  Heaven. 

Or,  haply,  thine  eyes  are  now  dimming  with  tears, 

For  the  sins  arid  the  follies  of  earlier  years. 

Let  the  past  time  suffice  thee ;  go,  sin  thou  no  more ; 

Look  onward,  yea,  upward,  through  Hope's  brighter  door, 

And  firm  let  thy  trust  be  in  Heaven. 

In  life's  darkest  hour  there's  a  power  to  sustain 

And  lift  us  to  peace  and  to  gladness  again; 

Then  trust  thee ;  though  hope's  brightest  visions  be  flown, 

Let  thy  motto  be,  ever,  "  Despair  not;  hope  on," 

And  firm  let  thy  trust  be  in  Heaven. 


228  THE  POUT*  OF  MAINE. 


Jmilu   (Baton. 
£3       u$?j> 


Miss  Emily  Eaton,  youngest  child  and  latest  survivor  of  the  family  of  the  late  Cyrus 
Eaton,  the  historian,-  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,— was  born  in  Warren,  Me. 
Sept.  20,  1818.  She  was  a  woman  of  very  much  more  than  ordinary  intellectual  ability, 
and  though  the  greater  part  of  her  life  was  in  its  continuance  a  constant  struggle  with 
severe  physical  pain,  yet,  when  her  father  lost  his  sight,  her  eyes  and  hand  were  of  ma 
terial  service  to  him  in  the  literary  work  he  undertook.  About'  1847,  Miss  Eaton  lost  the 
partial  use  of  all  her  limbs,  but  God  spared  her  a  limited  use  of  her  right  hand  and 
though  crippled  and  distorted,  with  that  hand  she  assisted  in  the  preparation  of  the 

Annals  of  Warren,"  and  the  "  Histories  of  Thomaston  and  Rockland."  Closely  associ 
ated  together  as  they  were  by  their  infirmities,  it  is  hard  to  say  how  much  she  helped 
him.  The  hymn  which  she  wrote  for  the  centennial  celebration  of  her  native  town  is 
incorporated  in  the  recent  edition  of  its  history.  After  the  death  of  her  father  she  very 
wisely  turned  her  energies  to  the  execution  of  a  task  which  her  father  had  in  contempla 
tion  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  the  continuation  of  his  "Annals  of  Warren"  through  the 
quarter  of  a  century  which  had  elapsed  since  its  publication.  That  this  was  a  great 
undertaking  to  one  in  her  feeble  health  will  be  readily  understood,  but  how  laborious  it 
was  can  hardly  be  conceived  by  one  who  has  not  had  some  experience  in  similar  work. 
Without  the  assistance  of  her  niece,  Laura  E.  Eaton,  who  tenderly  cared  for  her  while 
sharing  this  labor,  she  could  riot  possibly  have  accomplished  it.  This  work  she  was  priv 
ileged  to  finish  before  her  death,  and  to  receive  a  sample  copy  of  her  book  from  the  press. 
Miss  Eaton  was  also  possessed  of  artistic  talent  in  no  mean  degree.  She  died  Sept.  20 
1877. 


ODE. 

WRITTEN   FOR   WARREN5 S   CENTENNIAL,    JULY  4,    1876, 

Soft,  round  these  purple,  wood-crowned  hills, 

The  mists  of  ocean  crept, 
And  blue  as  now,  through  bends  and  falls, 

The  George's  waters  grandly  swept, 
When  on  their  way  they  swept,  this  day 

One  hundred  years  ago, 
Without  one  bridge  to  span  their  tide, 

One  hundred  years  ago ! 

Where  Warren  village  now  gleams  white 

From  out  the  elm-trees  green, 
Only  one  settler's  log-hut  rose 

Midst  wide-armed  oaks  and  pines'  dark  screen; 
For  our  grandsires,  no  bell-hung  spires, 

One  hundred  years  ago, 
Pointed  the  way  to  heaven,  that  day, 

One  hundred  years  ago. 

But  windowless  the  old  church  stood, 

Close  by  the  river's  side; 
And  boats,  instead  of  carriages, 

Made  highway  of  its  tide ! — 
To  church  they  glide,  all  doors  swung  wide, 

One  hundred  years  ago, 
For  matrons  mild,  man,  barefoot  child, 

One  hundred  years  ago. 


EMILY  EATON.  229 


Beneath  primeval  forest  growth, 

The  wild  wolf  reared  her  young; 
The  sombre  bear  peered  round  the  brake; 

The  moose  his  branching  antlers  swung; 
And  sometimes  in  its  gloomiest  depths 

Appeared  the  stealthy  ancient  foe, — 
The  red-man's  melancholy  face, 

One  hundred  years  ago. 

But  with  that  foe  the  war  was  o'er, 

The  hatchet  buried  deep ; 
While  stronger,  deadlier  enemies 

Across  the  ocean  sweep. 
The  tax-cursed  tea  was  in  the  sea, 

One  hundred  years  ago; 
And,  driven  away  from  Boston  Bay, 

Had  fled  the  British  foe. 

Yet  still  they  raged,  and  fierce  war  waged, 

Taxing  our  new-born  Nation's  powers; 
But  mid  the  strife  there  sprang  to  life 

This  goodly,  steady  town  of  ours, 
Named  for  the  dead,  whose  precious  head, 

One  hundred  years  ago, 
Lay  in  the  grave — the  year-old  grave, 

One  hundred  years  ago ! 

O  Warren !  named  for  him  who  died, 

For  justice,  liberty,  and  all 
That  lifts  man  up  his  God  beside, 

See  that  your  standard  never  fall 
From  love  of  Right  and  purest  Light, 

A  hundred  years  have  won ! — 
But  gleam  out  bright  from  loftiest  height 

One  hundred  years  to  come ! 


A  CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 

WRITTEN     FOB     THE     TOWN    OF     WARREN' S     CELEBRATION    OF    HER    ONE 
HUNDREDTH   ANNIVERSARY,    NOV.    8,    1876. 

The  Century  bell  has  sounded 

Its  deep,  portentous  chime! 

A  hundred  years  are  rounded 


230  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Upon  the  voyage  sublime ! 
And  our  good  town 
Has  worn  the  crown 
Of  Warren's  name 
And  Warren's  fame 
A  Hundred  Years  of  Time ! 

What  histories  are  enfolded 

In  that  one  solemn  stroke  !— 
The  embryo  plant  well  moulded ! — 
The  acorn  grown  an  oak ! 
Those  fathers'  toils, 
Their  sweat,  their  moils, 
Have  given  our  age 
Rich  heritage, 
And  grateful  thanks  invoke ! 

Those  plantings  weak  have  now  grown  great; 

Those  houses  few,  a  throng;— 
And,  spite  of  ills,  and  wars,  and  fate, 
That  handful,  thousands  strong ! 
The  Faithful  Hand 
All  good  has  planned, — 
His  people  led; — 
Through  famines,  fed; — 
And  kept  the  trusting  heart  elate ! 

Father  Mysterious!    Throned  in  light! 
In  whom  all  live  and  breathe ! — 

To  Thee  we  lift  our  thanks  to-night ! 
Our  humble  praise  receive, — 
For  sun's  glad  rays 
Morns,  nights,  and  days, 
The  sweet  refrain 
Of  breeze  and  rain, 
Thou  didst  through  all  the  century  give! 

Make  glad  their  souls  who  toiled  for  us, 

And  these  fair  scenes  begun ! 
Forefathers'  cares,  foremothers'  prayers, 
Rose  with  each  morning's  sun ; 
Beyond  earth,  Lord, 
Give  their  reward, 
While  peaceful  rest 
In  earth's  calm  breast 
The  century  ashes  death  has  won ! 


CL  A  UDE  LEWIS  HEM  A  N  S.  231 

And  us  who  now  are  dwelling 

In  Warren's  goodly  town, 
Whose  hearts  with  joy  are  swelling 
For  all  her  just  renown, — 
Keep  us  upright, 
In  honor  bright, 
Pure,  temperate,  kind, 
By  Christ  refined, 
Of  all  centennials  the  crown ! 

Thanks!  that  the  bell  has  sounded 

Its  deep,  portentous  chime ! — 
That  a  hundred  years  are  rounded 
Upon  the  voyage  sublime, 
And  our  good  town 
Has  now  the  crown 
Of  Warren's  name 
And  Warren's  fame, 
A  Hundred  Years  of  Time ! 


JTwts 


Claude  L.  Hemans,  a  son  of  the  gifted  and  renowned  English  poetess,  Felicia  Hemans, 
•was  born  in  Dublin  about  1818.  He  had  been  educated  in  part  by  his  uncle,  Sir  Thomas 
Brown,  and  came  to  this  country  imder  the  patronage  of  his  mother's  friend  and  admirer, 
Prof.  Norton  of  Cambridge.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College,  in  this  State,  in  the  class  of 
1838,  and  while  in  college  is  said  to  have  exhibited  marks  of  talent  especially  in  the  ac 
quisition  of  languages.  After  graduation  he  spent  a  year  in  teaching  in  the  Western 
States.  He  then  returned  to  England,  selected  the  medical  profession,  went  to  Edin 
burgh  for  the  purpose  of  study,  and  there  soon  after  died.  The  "  Bowdoin  Poets  "  con 
tains  two  graceful  poems  from  his  pen,  one  of  which  we  present  our  readers. 


STANZAS  ON  RECOVERY  FROM  ILLNESS. 

How  sweet  the  rest  kind  nature  brings, 
As  now  she  bids  my  sorrow  cease, 

And  comes  with  healing  on  her  wings 
To  give  this  aching  brow  release. 

This  kindly  air  so  sweet  and  mild, 
That  greets  me  like  affection's  voice, 

She  sends  to  soothe  her  suffering  child, 
And  make  my  drooping  heart  rejoice. 

Hope  with  unruffled  plumes  once  more 
Broods  buoyant  on  my  tranquil  breast, 

As,  when  the  raging  storm  is  o'er,! 

Some  light  bird  floats  on  waves  at  rest. 


232  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Thanks,  gentle  friends,  whose  tender  care 
Has  poured  these  blessings  on  my  head, 

And  o'er  the  gloom  of  dark  despair 
The  rays  of  warm  affection  shed. 


mj<unin  ikytt\or$  (j>onld 


Born  in  Augusta,  May,  1818,  and  died  in  Brookline,  Mass.,  Jan.  24,  1885.  He  entered  the 
Freshman  class  in  Bcnydoin  College  in  the  second  term,  and,  subsequently,  by  extra  effort, 
passed  into  the  next  higher  class,  an  achievement,  according  to  the  college  annals,  rarely 
accomplished.  After  reading  law  with  his  father  and  brother,  and  at  the  Harvard 
Law  School,  he  was  in  active  practice  in  Augusta  till  1855,  when,  for  two  years,  he  had 
charge  of  the  Augusta  Aye.  Later,  he  was  engaged  for  a  short  time  in  railway  enter 
prises  in  the  West.  Returning  to  Augusta,  he  was  placed  in  nomination  for  a  seat  in  Con 
gress,  in  1859,  but  failed  of  an  election.  He  was  afterward  judge  of  the  municipal  court 
of  the  city,  and,  in  1856,  represented  the  city  in  the  State  Legislature.  He  removed  to 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1864.  Mr.  Fuller  occasionally  contributed  articles  to  genealogical 
and  other  magazines. 

OUR  RETURNED  NATIVES. 

From  bustling  traffic,  or  luxurious  ease, 

From  contest  stern,  for  glory  or  for  fees, 

From  lures  of  wealth,  or  mad  pursuit  of  fame, 

From  hunting  titles,  or  from  hunting  game, 

From  stroke  of  anvil,  din  of  wheel  and  saw, 

From  dusty  volumes  of  black-letter  law, 

From  patient  visits  at  the  patient's  bed, 

Lest  nature  work  the  cure  they  so  much  dread, 

From  pulpits  lighted  by  celestial  fire, 

From  household  hearths  whose  charms  can  never  tire, 

From  California's  mines  of  golden  ore, 

From  naval  cruisers  by  the  Afric's  shore, 

From  Fashion's  empire,  I  had  almost  said, 

(But  Fashion  reigns  wherever  mortals  tread  ;) 

From  these,  and  more,  upon  this  gladsome  day, 

For  purer  pleasures  they  have  turned  away, 

With  bounding  steps  to  greet  this  morn  the  home, 

"Sweet  Home"  of  youthful  days,  they  gladly  come, 

And  gather  at  the  native  hearth  again, 

One  mighty,  joyous,  grateful,  household  train. 


HOPE,  FAITH,  CHARITY. 

Have  HOPE  !— it  is  the  brightest  star 
That  lights  life's  pathway  down, 

A  richer,  purer  gem  than  decks 
An  Eastern  monarch's  crown. 


BENJAMIN  APTUOEP  GOULD  FULLER.  233 

The  Midas  that  may  turn  to  joy 

The  grief-fount  of  the  soul; 
That  points  the  prize,  and  bids  thee  press 

With  fervor  to  the  goal. 

Have  HOPE  ! — as  the  tossed  mariner, 

Upon  the  wild  waste  driven, 
With  rapture  hails  the  Polar  star, 

His  guiding  light  in  heaven, — 
So  Hope  shall  gladden  thee,  and  guide, 

Along  life's  stormy  road, 
And  as  a  sacred  beacon  stand, 

To  point  thee  to  thy  God. 

Have  FAITH! — the  substance  of  things  hoped, 

Of  things  not  seen  the  sign; 
That  nerves  the  arm  with  God-like  might, 

The  soul  with  strength  divine. 
Have  Faith! — her  rapid  foot  shall  bring 

Thee,  conquering,  to  the  goal, 
Her  glowing  hand  with  honors  wreathe 

A  chaplet  for  thy  soul. 

Have  FAITH!— and  though  around  thy  bark 

The  tempest  surges  roar, 
At  her  stern  voice  the  storm  shall  rest, 

The  billows  rage  no  more. 
HOP*:  bids  the  soul  to  soar  on  high, 

But  yet  no  wing  supplies;  ••    . 

She  marks  the  way, — but  FAITH  shall  bear 

The  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Have  CHARITY! — for  though  thou'st  faith 

To  make  the  hills  remove, 
Thou  nothing  art  if  wanting  this, — 

The  Charity  of  love. 
And  though  an  angel's  tongue  were  thine, 

Whose  voice  none  might  surpass, 
If  Charity  inspire  thee  not, 

Thou  art  "as  sounding  brass." 

Have  CHARITY  ! — that  suffers  long, 

Is  kind,  and  thinks  no  ill; 
That  grieveth  for  a  brother's  fault, 

Yet  loves  that  brother  still. 

17 


234 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


FAITH,  HOPE  and  CHARITY!  of  these 

The  last  is  greatest,  best : 
'Tis  Heaven  itself  come  down  to  dwell 

Within  the  human  breast. 


glisabefh  jjagfon  Jfmt/tss. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  P.  Prentiss,  youngest  daughter  of  Rev.  Edward  Payson,  was  born  in  Port 
land,  Oct.  26,  1818  ;  married  ttev.  Geo.  L.  Prentiss,  D.  D.,  April  16,  1815  ;  died  August  13, 
1878.  Her  earlier  literary  productions,  comprising  many  juvenile  works,  were  received 
with  great  favor,  giving  her  almost  at  once  a  wide  reputation.  At  a  later  period  she  ven 
tured  upon  a  somewhat  different  and  perhaps  higher  flight,  the  result  of  Avhich  was 
"  Stepping  Heavenward,"  which  placed  her  in  the  very  front  ranks  in  the  line  of  effort 
called  for  by  works  of  the  class  to  which  that  work  belongs.  This  work  first  appeared  as 
a  serial  in  The  Advance,  and  was  issued  in  book  form  in  1869.  She  herself  said  of  it : 
"  Every  word  of  that  book  was  a  prayer,  and  seemed  to  come  of  itself."  Many  of  her 
excellent  hymns  and  poems  have  also  been  a  "  balm  and  benediction  "  to  thousands  of  fel 
low  mortals.  One  English  mother  wrote  her  that  she  had  read  "  Stepping  Heavenward" 
through  many  times,  and  always  with  good  results  to  her  soul.  Mrs.  Prentiss  is  buried 
in  Maplewood  Cemetery,  Dorset,  Vt.,  and  the  place  where  her  body  rests  in  sweet  seclu 
sion  is,  indeed,  hallowed  ground. 


MORE  LOVE  TO  THEE,  O  CHRIST. 


More  love  to  Thee,  O  Christ ! 

More  love  to  Thee; 
Hear  Thou  the  prayer  I  make 

On  bending  knee ; 
This  is  my  earnest  plea,— 
More  love,  O  Christ,  to  Thee, 

More  love  to  Thee ! 

More  love  to  Thee ! 

Once  earthly  joy  I  craved, 

Sought  peace  and  rest; 
Now  Thee  alone  I  seek, 

Give  what  is  best; 
This  all  my  prayer  shall  be, — 
More  love,  O  Christ,  to  Thee, 

More  love  to  Thee ! 

More  love  to  Thee ! 


Let  sorrow  do  its  work, 

Send  grief  and  pain; 
Sweet  are  Thy  messengers, 

Sweet  their  refrain, 
When  they  can  sing  with  me, 
More  love,  O  Christ,  to  Thee, 

More  love  to  Thee ! 

More  love  to  Thee ! 

Then  shall  my  latest  breath 

Whisper  Thy  praise ; 
This  be  the  parting  cry 

My  heart  shall  raise ; 
This  still  its  prayer  shall  be,- 
More  love,  O  Christ,  to  Thee, 

More  love  to  Thee ! 

More  love  to  Thee ! 


MY  GIFT. 
I  thought  that  prattling  girls  and  boys 

Would  fill  this  empty  room; 
That  my  rich  heart  would  gather  flowers 

From  childhood's  opening  bloom. 
One  child  and  two  green  graves  are  mine, 

That  is  God's  gift  to  me; 
A  bleeding,  fainting,  broken  heart — 

That  is  my  gift  to  Thee. 


EDWAED  PAY  IS  ON  WEST  ON.  285 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  IN  CHRIST. 

I  walk  along  the  crowded  streets,  and  mark 

The  eager,  anxious,  troubled  faces; 
Wondering  what  this  man  seeks,  what  that  heart  craves, 

In  earthly  places. 

Do  I  want  anything  that  they  are  wanting  ? 

Is  each  of  them  my  brother  ? 
Could  we  hold  fellowship,  speak  heart  to  heart, 

Each  to  the  other  ? 

Nay,  but  I  know  not!  only  this  I  know, 

That  sometimes  merely  crossing 
Another's  path,  where  life's  tumultuous  waves 

Are  ever  tossing, 

He,  as  He  passes,  whispers  in  mine  ear 

One  magic  sentence  only, 
And  in  the  awful  loneliness  of  crowds 

I  am  not  lonely. 

Ah,  what  a  life  is  theirs  who  live  in  Christ! 

How  vast  a  mystery, 
Reaching  in  height  to  heaven,  and  in  its  depth 

The  uiifathomed  sea! 


jjtwson  jjjeston. 


E.  P.  Weston,  a  son  of  Rev.  Isaac  Western,  was  born  at  Boothbay,  on  the  19th  day  of 
Jan.,  1819.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  1839.  and  the  next  year  published  the  vol 
ume  of  "  Bowdoin  Poets/'  He  then  engaged  in  teaching,  and  for  nearly  seven  years  had 
charge  of  the  Lewiston  Falls  Academy,  removing  next  to  Gorham.  where  he  was  princi 
pal  of  the  Female  Seminary  in  that  place,  which,  under  a  new  organization,  became  the 
Maine  Female  Seminary.  After  a  service  of  thirteen  years  at  that  institution,  he 
received  the  appointment  of  State  Superintendent  of  Schools,  and  a  reappointment 
three  years  later.  While  in  office,  he  was  largely  instrumental  in  the  establishment  of 
the  normal  school  system,  and  opened  the  first  institution  of  the  kind  in  Farmington. 
Mr.  Weston  was  at  one  time  an  assistant  editor  of  the  Rclectic,  a  popular  literary  jour 
nal,  published  at  Portland,  afterwards  merged  into  the  Portland  Transcript.  ln'l8G5, 
he  had  charge  of  the  Abbott  Family  School  for  boys,  at  Farmington,  and  later  was  princi 
pal  of  a  seminary  for  young  ladies  at  Lake  Forest.  111.,  which  he  conducted  seven  years 
with  success  and,  after  retiring  in  1876,  he  opened  a  school  for  young  ladies  at  Highland 
Park,  near  Chicago.  A  small  volume  of  Mr.  Weston's  poems  has  been  electrotyped.  He 
died  Oct.  13,  1879.  He  was  a  singularly  amiable,  genial,  and  pure-minded  man.  Many 
are  those  who  now  look  back  with  gratitude  to  the  help  and  encouragement  received 
from  him  in  their  early  struggles  for  an  education.  His  funeral  took  place  frqjn  his  for 
mer  residence  at  Gorham,  on  Friday,  the  17th  of  Nov.,  1879,  where  many  friends  and  for 
mer  townsmen  gathered  to  testify  their  high  esteem  for  him  and  their  sincere  grief 
chastened,  however,  by  the  trust  that  he  has  gone 

"  After  life's  autumn  to  the  living  green 

Of  the  sweet  fields  and  the  unfading  spring." 


23ti  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

SAMUEL  PICKARD. 

"  The  path  of  the  just  is  as  the  shining  liyht." 
No  shining  path,  by  Israel's  just  men  trod, 

Hath  opened  clearer  to  the  perfect  day, 
Than  this,  who  from  his  presence  walks  with  God; 

While  tearful  eyes  the  silent  form  survey, 
And  all  our  hearts  with  deepest  reverence  say, 

"  This  is  the  man  the  people  knew — to  trust,— 
The  orphan's  guardian  and  the  widow's  stay;" 

And  when  we  lay  the  patriarch's  form  in  dust, 
The  monument  we  rear  above  shall  be— THE  JUST. 

Nor  less  the  depths  of  tenderness  and  truth, 

Which  from  his  great  heart  like  a  fountain  welled; 
With  a  broad  sympathy  for  age  and  youth 

His  hand  outstretched  with  generous  aid  he  held, 
Nor  honest  poverty  with  scorn  repelled. 

Stern  in  the  right  he  stood  by  mercy's  side, 
And  never  from  the  better  cause  withheld 

Or  face  or  favor,  but  with  Christian  pride 
Lived  for  God's  noblest  truth,  and  in  its  glory  died! 


A  VISION  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

BEING,  A    SEQUEL   TO    BRYANT'S    "  THANATOPSIS,"    AND    UA    HYMN   TO 

DEATH." 

Yet  once  again,  O  man,  come  forth,  and  walk 
With  Nature  in  her  pleasant  haunts,  and  hold 
Thy  heart  in  gentle  fellowship  with  hers. 
Enter  the  silent  groves,  or  pierce  again 
The  depths  of  the  untrodden  wilderness, 
And  she  shall  utter  to  thy  listening  ear 
Large  prophecies  for  thine  interpreting, 
Even  though  her  voice  hath  sung  to  thee  of  Death. 
And  for  the  vision  of  Earth's  many  graves 
Thou  hast  gone  sorrowing,  yet  come  again, 
And  she  shall  tell  thee  with  a  thousand  tongues 
That  life  is  hers — life  in  uncounted  forms — 
Stealing  in  silence  through  the  hidden  roots, 
In  every  branch  thac  swings,  in  the  green  leaves 
And  waving  grain,  and  the  gay  summer  flowers 
'  That  gladden  the  beholder.     Aye,  and  more! 
Each  towering  oak,  that  lifts  its  living  head 
To  the  broad  sunlight  in  eternal  strength, 
Glories  to  tell  thee  that  the  acorn  died ! 


EDWARD  PAYSON  WESTON. 


The  flowers  that  spring  above  their  last  year's  grave 
Are  eloquent  with  the  voice  of  life  and  hope, 
And  the  green  trees  clap  their  rejoicing  hands, 
Waving  in  triumph  o'er  the  earth's  decay! 
The  insect  brood  is  there.     Each  painted  wing 
That  flutters  in  the  sunshine,  burst  but  now 
From  the  close  cerements  of  a  worm's  own  shroud, 
Is  telling,  as  it  flies,  how  life  may  spring 
In  its  glad  beauty  from  the  gloom  of  death. 

Where  the  crushed  mold  beneath  thy  sunken  foot 
Seems  but  the  sepulchre  of  old  decay. 
Turn  thou  a  keener  glance,  and  thou  shalt  find 
The  living  myriads  of  a  mimic  world, 
^ay,  the  light  breath  that  lifts  the  sultry  air 
Bears  on  its  wing  a  cloud  of  witnesses 
That  earth,  from  her  unnumbered  caves  of  death, 
Pours  forth  a  mightier  tide  of  teeming  life. 

Raise  then  the  hymn  to  Immortality ! 
The  broad,  green  prairies  and  the  wilderness, 
And  the  old  cities  where  the  dead  have  slept, 
Age  upon  age,  a  thousand  graves  in  one, 
Shall  yet  be  crowded  with  the  living  forms 
Of  myriads  ransomed  from  the  silent  dust! 

Kings  that  lie  down  in  state,  and  earth's  poor  slaves, 
Resting  together  in  one  long  embrace ; 
The  white-haired  patriarch  and  the  tender  babe, 
Grown  old  together  in  the  flight  of  years; 
They  of  immortal  fame,  and  they  whose  praise 
Was  never  sounded  in  the  ears  of  men ; 
Arch  on  and  priest,  and  the  poor  common  crowd, 
All  the  vast  concourse  in  the  halls  of  death, 
Shall  waken  from  the  sleep  of  silent  years, 
To  hail  the  dawn  of  the  immortal  day ! 

Aye,  learn  the  lesson.     Though  the  worm  shall  be 
Thy  brother  in  the  mystery  of  death, 
And  all  shall  pass,  humble  and  proud  and  gay, 
Together  to  earth's  mighty  charnel-house, 
Yet  the  immortal  is  thy  heritage ! 
Thy  grave  shall  gather  thee;  yet  thou  shalt  come, 
Beggar  or  prince,  not  as  thou  goest  forth, 
In  rags  or  purple,  but  arrayed  as  those 
Whose  mortal  puts  on  immortality! 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Then  mourn  not  when  thou  markest  the  decay 
Of  Nature,  and  her  solemn  hymn  of  death 
Steals,  with  its  note  of  sadness,  to  thy  heart. 
That  other  voice,  with  its  rejoicing  tones, 
Breaks  from  the  mold  with  every  bursting  flower, 
"  O  grave,  thy  victory!"     And  thou,  O  man, 
Burdened  with  sorrow  at  the  woes  which  crowd 
This  narrow  heritage,  lift  up  thy  head, 
In  the  strong  hope  of  the  undying  life, 
And  shout  the  hymn  to  immortality! 

The  dear  departed  that  have  passed  away 
To  the  still  house  of  death,  leaving  thine  own,— 
The  gray-haired  sire  that  died  in  blessing  thee, 
Mother,  or  sweet-lipped  babe,  or  she  who  gave 
Thy  home  the  light  and  bloom  of  Paradise, — 
They  shall  be  thine  again  when  thou  shalt  pass, 
At  God's  appointment,  through  the  Golden  Gates! 

And  thou  that  gloriest  to  lie  down  with  kings, 
Thine  uncrowned  head  no  lowlier  than  theirs, 
Seek  thou  the  loftier  glory  to  be  known 
A  king  and  priest  to  God,  when  thou  shalt  pass 
Forth  from  the  "silent  halls,"  to  take  thy  place 
With  patriarchs  and  prophets  and  the  blest, 
Gone  up  from  every  land  to  people  heaven. 

So  live,  that  when  the  mighty  caravan, 
Which  halts  one  night-time  in  the  vale  of  death, 
Shall  strike  its  white  tents  for  the  morning  march, 
Thou  shalt  mount  onward  to  the  Eternal  Hills, 
Thy  foot  unwearied,  and  thy  strength  renewed, 
Like  the  strong  eagle's,  for  its  upward  flight! 

THE  CHRISTIAN  POET.* 

ADDRESSED    TO    JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

We  borrow  from  the  dead  Greek's  living  tongue, 
In  which  the  olden  minstrels  wrought  and  sung, 
And  call  him  poet,  who,  creating  still, 
Moulds  us  new  forms  of  passion,  thought  and  will. 

*  MESSRS.  EDITORS:  Why  should  our  Eastern  friends  have  to  themselves  all  the  pleas 
ure  of  bringing  song-offerings  to  the  prince  of  song?  The  following  lines  were  published 
before  the  Rebellion,  when  to  admire  Whittier  and  his  poems,  was  to  risk  the  curled  lip 
of  that  large  class  of  our  countrymen,  Avhom  R.  H.  Stoddard,  in  his  own  tribute,  calls  his 
"  old-time  haters."  Thank  God  for  this  new  illustration  that  truth  and  goodness  win  m 
every  contest  with  evil.  Serus  in  ccelum  redeas.  E.  P.  W. 

Highland  Hall  Jan.  24,  1878. 


GEOEGE  FOSTER  TALBOT.  239 

When  his  great  art  the  poet-builder  plies, 
Mark  how  those  forms  in  wondrous  beauty  rise; 
Creations  fairer  than  the  world  has  known 
In  monumental  brass  or  Parian  stone. 

Thus  Homer  builded  and  all  time  defied : 
Exegi  monumentum,  Flaccus  cried, 
^Ere  perennius — and  the  crumbling  brass 
Tells  to  the  ages,  it  has  come  to  pass! 

But  he  who  works  with  God  shall  rise  and  build 
Temples  more  splendid  than  mere  art  can  gild; 
Arches  and  architraves  in  wonder  wrought, 
From  purer  fancies  and  of  holier  thought. 

Who  works  with  God  works  with  a  nobler  aim, 
His  inspiration  a  diviner  flame, 
And  truth  and  beauty  moulded  in  his  heart 
Outshine  the  brightest  forms  of  classic  art. 

O  thou,  my  brother,  whom  the  muses  crown 
With  Fame's  green  chaplets  and  a  world's  renown, 
Above  thy  laurels,  howe'er  fresh  and  green, 
The  bright  aureole  of  the  Christ  is  seen! 

Baptized  to  Him  who  welcomed  scorn  and  shame, 
Thou  hast  refused  the  bribe  of  earthlier  fame, 
Gone  down  to  share  thy  suffering  brother's  wrong, 
And  bear  the  solace  of  thy  Christian  song. 

And  thou  hast  smit  the  hard  oppressor's  ears 
With  words  that  tingle  like  the  Hebrew  seer's; 
Burning  with  holy  fire  when  men  have  sold 
Conscience  and  right  in  lust  of  peace  or  gold. 

Not  thine  to  gild  the  sepulchres  of  sin, 
The  nation  strives  to  hide  its  shame  within ; 
No  incense  to  "  Our  country,  right  or  wrong," 
Waves  from  the  golden  censer  of  thy  song. 

Immortal  genius  touched  the  classic  lyre; 
To  nobler  song  let  Christian  bards  aspire : 
Who  works  with  God  shall  reach  a  loftier  name, 
His  inspiration  a  diviner  flame ! 


Born  in  East  Machias,  January,  1819;  after  graduating  at  Bowdoin  he  became  assistant 
teacher  in  Washington  Academy,  in  his  native  town,  at  the  same  time  pursuing  legal 
studies  with  Hon.  Joshua  A.  Lowell,  completing  the  same  in  the  office  of  Hon.  J.  W. 
Bradbury,  of  Augusta.  He  began  practice  in  Skowhegan  in  1840,  and,  the  year  following 


240  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

he  removed  to  East  Machias,  where  and  in  Machias,  the  county  seat,  with  the  exception 
of  a  year  in  Columbia,  he  continued  practice  until  in  1864  he  removed  to  Portland,  where 
he  has  since  resided,  excepting  the  interval  of  a  year  when  he  was  Solicitor  of  the  Treas 
ury  in  Washington.  Among  other  offices  ably  tilled,  Mr.  Talbot  was  United  States 
Attorney  for  Maine  several  years,  commissioner  to  investigate  what  were  known  as  the 
"  paper  credits,"  1870  and  1871,  and  to  revise  the  constitution  of  the  State  in  1875.  He 
has  also  contributed  quite  largely  to  magazines  and  newspapers,  especially  to  the  Xew 
York  Tribune.  All  of  his  articles,  whether  on  literary  or  economic  subjects,  are  keen 
and  vigorous.  Mr.  Talbot,  since  retiring  from  the. practice  of  his  profession,  has  written 
and  published  a  work  entitled:  "Jesus,  his  Opinions  and  Character"— being  a  critical 
study  of  the  tradition  of  the  origin  of  Christianity,  as  embodied  in  the  New  Testament. 
The  views  advanced  are  original  and  striking  and  not  quite  in  accord  with  the  popular 
convictions. 

FROM  "AD  SOD  ALES." 

A  POEM   DELIVERED   AT   BRUNSWICK   IN    1887,    BEING   THE   FIFTIETH   AN 
NIVERSARY   OF   THE   GRADUATION   OF   HIS    CLASS. 

This  is  the  place ;  here  are  the  pines  and  sand ; 

Two  venerable  structures  keep  their  sites; 
But  gone  is  every  scholar  of  the  band 

That  led  our  halting  steps  up  learning's  heights. 
"The  old  order  changeth,  giving  place  to  new," 

New  men,  new  manners,  and  new  laws  we  see, 
And  yet  amid  the  changes  that  we  view 

Is  nothing  half  so  strangely  changed  as  we. 
For  would  the  golden  youth,  whose  lusty  legs 

Spurn  the  tormented  football  o'er  these  plains, 
Deem  life  worth  having,  low-drained  to  its  dregs, 

The  mind's  regrets  tempering  the  body's  pains  ? 

Or  think  that  any  worthy  recompense 

Could  come  of  wisdom,  fame  or  wealth, 
If  these  prized  goods  were  purchased  at  expense 

Of  youth's  i.deals  and  its  robust  health? 
Doubtless  we  seniors  in  our  gray  disguises, 

With  dentist  art  beaming  our  smiles  of  mirth, 
Seem  to  these  callow  scholars  life's  grand  prizes 

To  have  bought  dearly  and  above  their  worth. 
We  might  not  know  each  other  in  the  masks 

That  age  has  stuck  upon  each  youthful  head, 
But  grasping  hands  to  every  one  that  asks, 

Might  say,  "Not  know  me?    I  am  Tom  or  Ned." 
And  surely  then  some  tone,  some  trick  of  face, 

Though  over-scratched  by  miny  a  wrinkled  line, 
Back  in  our  recognition  would  replace 

The  boyish  image  of  the  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
If  not,  some  joke  upon  Old  Ferox  played, 

Some  discipline  incurred,  some  censure  gained, 
Or  how,  in  guise  fantastic  all  arrayed, 

The  summoned  students  all  turned  out  and  trained. 


GEORGE  FOSTER  TALBOT.  241 

Told  o'er  with  mirth  in  all  minute  detail 

Might  be  the  Shibboleth,  and  to  all  declare 
The  veteran,  whose  memories  do  not  fail, 

Is  no  impostor,  and  in  fact  was  there. 


FROM  "THE  DEAD." 

WRITTEN   WHILE   IN   COLLEGE. 

How  oft  disease,  and  sword,  and  flood, 

Have  reaped  earth's  harvest  o'er, 
And  all  her  myriad,  myriad  race, 

To  their  dark  garner  bore. 

Hushed  is  the  Medes'  invading  tramp, 

Their  spears  consumed  with  rust, 
The  host  that  swelled  through  Babel's  gates 

Have  mingled  with  their  dust. 

On  Afric's  stormy  strand  are  thrown 

The  Tyrians  and  their  gain, 
Nor  now  can  boast  the  fearful  ones 

Who  tempted  ne'er  the  main. 

Mourn  not  the  Greek  on  Marathon, 

Or  'neath  the  Attic  waves, 
The  nation,  rescued  by  their  death, 

Sunk  in  less  glorious  graves. 

Time,  Carthage,  has  avenged  thy  wrongs, — 

The  haughty  throng,  that  led 
Thy  captive  sons  through  Rome's  proud  streets, 

Are  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Jerusalem  weeps  not  her  slain, 

Nor  hates  her  conquering  foes, 
The  mountains  saved  not  them  who  fled, 

Nor  yet  their  victory  those. 

Ranks  fell  on  ranks  on  Waterloo 

And  Borodino's  plain, 
And  Russia's  snows  have  crimson  grown 

With  blood  of  thousands  slain. 

The  peasant  by  his  cottage  fire, 

The  noble  in  his  hall, 
The  savage  in  his  wilderness, 

Before  the  slayer  fall. 


242  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Oh,  all  the  race  of  men  are  dead, 
And  earth  is  sad  and  drear ! 

Like  flitting  shadows  of  the  past, 
A  few  still  linger  here. 


ichoh  jjjhitq 


Abby  Nichols  White  was  born  in  Freeport,  Me.,  Feb.  11,  1819.  She  was  married  to  John 
Bailey,  of  Portland,  in  1838,  and  shortly  after  went  to  reside  in  that  city.  In  1853  she 
removed  with  her  family  to  Washington,  D.  C.  Most  of  her  poems  were  written  while 
Maine  Avas  her  home,  and  all  her  later  ones  were  written  rapidly,  as  some  occasion  that 
excited  her  sympathies  called  them  forth.  She  was  an  invalid  for  many  years,  but  not 
withstanding  her  sufferings,  she  took  great  interest  in  public  affairs,  both  in  her  own 
country  and  in  Europe,  and  was  the  centre  of  the  family  home  life,  the  inspiration  of 
her  husband  and  children,  the  most  helpful  friend  to  young  people,  and  a  benefactor  to 
the  poor  and  afflicted.  She  died  in  Washington,  July  8,  1886. 


HYMN. 

SUNG   AT  THE    ORDINATION   OF   REV.  FREDERICK   FROTHINGHAM, 
PORTLAND,  1856. 

Celestial  Comforter.     Thy  power  we  own, 

Thy  goodness  we  adore, 
And  humbly  kneeling  at  thy  throne, 

Thy  blessing  we  implore. 

Inspire  and  consecrate  to-day 

The  heart  of  age  and  youth, 
Who  suppliant  at  Thine  altar  pray 

For  wisdom,  love,  and  truth. 

Anoint  Thy  servant,  gracious  Lord, 

With  light  and  life  divine, 
Reveal  Thy  spirit  in  his  word, 

And  make  him  wholly  Thine. 

Thy  guidance  and  Thy  strength  impart, 

Thy  grace  to  him  be  given  — 
So  may  his  teachings  fill  the  heart, 

Like  gentle  dews  from  heaven. 


And,  in  Thy  plentitude  of  power, 
Wilt  Thou,  enthroned  above, 

Guide  us  in  every  dark'ning  hour 
With  messages  of  love. 


HENRY  JOSEPH  GARDNER.  243 

A.  L. 

APRIL  14,  1866. 

Weep  for  our  fallen  hero !  weep  to-day ! 
Bow  low  the  head,  and  reverently  pray, 
That  He,  who  governs  with  Divine  control, 
Will  bend  in  mercy  to  each  sorrowing  soul. 

In  hope,  in  faith,  to  Thee  we  lift  our  eyes. 
Our  lamb  was  slain,  accept  the  sacrifice ; 
And  in  memory  of  that  distant  grave, 
We  humbly  supplicate  Thy  power  to  save. 

Save,  by  Thy  wisdom,  guiding  strength  and  power, 
Our  glorious  country  in  this  trying  hour, 
When  smothered  treason  with  a  loyal  wand 
Proclaims  "  my  policy"  throughout  the  land. 

O  dusky  suppliants,  Moses  leads  no  more; 
Joined  to  his  idols  on  the  Southern  shore, 
He  lists  the  surging  of  the  upheaving  sea — 
From  Eist  to  West  it  comes—"  Ye  shall  be  free!" 


*ritner. 


Hon.  Henry  J.  Gardner  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  June  14,  1819.  He  was  once  an 
under-graduate  at  Bowdoin  College,  and  is  numbered  among  the  Bowdoin  Poets.  In 
"Know-Nothing"  times — from  the  year  1855  to  1858 — he  was  Governor  of  Massachusetts. 
He  married  Helen  Elizabeth  Cobb,  daughter  of  Richard  Cobb,  and  granddaughter  of 
Mathew  Cobb,  of  Portland,  in  1844.  She  died  in  Boston,  Sept.  2,  1869.  Mr.  Gardner  is 
still  actively  engaged  in  business  life,  and  has  an  office  on  Devonshire  street,  Boston. 


TO  A  BURGUNDY  ROSE. 

PRESENTED  THE  AUTHOR  BY  A  LADY. 

Fairest  of  flowers,  by  fairest  lady  given! 

Thine  only  fault  that  thou  wilt  quickly  fade,— 
Though  early  plucked,  yet  blessed  to  be  riven 

From  thine  own  stem,  and  on  her  bosom  laid, 
Like  as  a  pearl  in  gold,  a  star  in  heaven ! 

Oh !  1  would  dream  were  I  not  half  afraid — 
That  she  in  some  thought-wildered  happy  hour, 
Erstwhile  ere  thou  wert  given  me,  fair  flower, 

A  kiss  perchance  may  have  impressed  on  thee. 
And  I  would  dream  that  some  mysterious  power 

Had  kept  the  blessing  in  those  leaves,  for  me ! 
So  would  I  ply  thee  with  a  venturous  lip, 
The  nectar  of  that  hidden  thing  to  sip, — 

And  dream  of  rose-lipped  loveliness  and  thee ! 


THE  POSTS  OF  MAINE. 


j&ffffftl/ 


Kev.  Samuel  Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland,  June  18, 1819.  He  was  educated  at  the 
old  Portland  Academy  and  at  Harvard  College,  where  he  graduated  in  1839.  After  a  few 
years  spent  in  teaching,  he  studied  at  the  Divinity  School  of  Harvard  University,  and 
became  minister  of  Unitarian  churches;  first  at  Fall  Kiver,  Mass.,  afterward  at  Brook 
lyn,  N.  Y.  and  Germautowii,  Pa.  He  withdrew  from  the  last  in  1882,  to  devote  himself  to 
the  preparation  of  the  life  of  his  hrother,  H.  "W.  LongfelloAv,  which  was  published  in 
1886,  and  an  additional  volume  of  "Final  Memorials"  the  next  year.  He  has  written  a 
number  of  hymns  and  a  few  other  poems,  and  has  contributed  various  articles  to  The 
Radical,  the  Index,  etc.  In  1846  he  compiled,  in  connection  with  his  friend,  Samuel 
Johnson,  a  "Book  of  Hymns,"  and,  in  18(i4,  a  second  collection  called  "Hymns  of  the 
Spirit;"  also  a  small  collection  of  "  Hymns  and  Tunes,"  and  a  book  of  Vesper  Services 
for  his  church  in  Germantown.  He  wrote  a  brief  memoir  of  Mr.  Johnson,  prefixed  to  a 
volume  of  his  Essays  and  Sermons.  He  now  resides  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  usually  spend 
ing  his  summers  in  or  near  Portland.  A  dainty  volume  of  his  collected  poems,  for  pri 
vate  distribution,  has  recently  been  printed. 

LOOKING  UNTO  GOD. 
I  look  to  Thee  in  every  need, 

And  never  look  in  vain; 
I  feel  Thy  touch,  Eternal  Love! 

And  all  is  well  again; 
The  thought  of  Thee  is  mightier  far 
Than  sin  and  pain  and  sorrow  are. 

Discouraged  in  the  work  of  life, 

Disheartened  by  its  load, 
Shamed  by  its  failures  or  its  fears, 

I  sink  beside  the  road; 
But  let  me  only  think  of  Thee, 
And  then  new  heart  springs  up  in  me. 

Thy  calmness  bends  serene  above 

My  restlessness  to  still; 
Around  me  flows  thy  quickening  life 

To  nerve  my  faltering  will ; 
Thy  presence  fills  my  solitude, 
Thy  providence  turns  all  to  good. 

Embosomed  in  Thy  patient  love, 

Held  in  Thy  law,  I  stand; 
Thy  hand  in  all  things  I  behold, 

And  all  things  in  Thy  hand. 
Thou  leadest  me  by  unsought  ways, 
And  turn'st  my  mourning  into  praise. 


YESPER  HYMN. 
Again,  as  evening's  shadow  falls, 
We  gather  in  these  hallowed  walls, 
And  vesper  hymn  and  vesper  prayer 
Rise  mingling  on  the  quiet  air. 


SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW.  245 

The  struggling  heart  that  seeks  release, 
Here  finds  the  rest  of  God's  own  peace, 
And,  strengthened  here  by  hymn  and  prayer, 
Lays  down  the  burden  and  the  care. 

O  God,  our  Light,  to  Thee  we  bow! 
Within  all  shadows  standest  Thou : 
Give  deeper  calm  than  night  can  bring, 
Give  sweeter  songs  than  life  can  sing ! 

Life's  tumult  we  must  meet  again, 
We  cannot  at  the  shrine  remain; 
But  in  the  spirit's  secret  cell 
May  hymn  and  prayer  forever  dwell ! 

WATCHMAN,  WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT? 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE   TWENTY-FIFTH   ANNIVERSARY   OF   THE    AMERICAN 
ANTI-SLAVERY    SOCIETY. 

A  quarter  of  the  circling  sphere 

Has  rounded  onward  to  the  light; 
We  see  not  yet  the  daylight  clear, 

But  we  do  see  the  paling  night. 

And  Hope  that  still  relumes  her  fires, 
And  Faith  that  shines  with  steadfast  ray, 

And  Love  that  never  faints  nor  tires, 
As  morning  stars  lead  in  the  day. 

O  Sentinels !  whose  tread  we  heard 
Through  long  hours  when  we  could  not  see, 

Pause  now;  exchange  with  cheer  the  word, 
The  unchanging  watchword,  Liberty! 

Look  back,  and  how  much  has  been  won; 

Look  round,  and  how  much  yet  to  win; 
The  watches  of  the  night  are  done, 

The  watches  of  the  day  begin. 

O  Thou,  whose  mighty  patience  holds 

The  night  and  day  alike  in  view, 
Thy  will  our  dearest  hopes  enfolds ; 

Oli  keep  us  steadfast,  patient,  true ! 


THE  GOLDEN  SUNSET. 
The  golden  sea  its  mirror  spreads 

Beneath  the  golden  skies, 
And  but  a  narrow  strip  between 

Of  earth  and  shadow  lies. 


246  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

The  cloud-like  cliffs,  the  cliff-like  clouds, 

Dissolved  in  glory,  float, 
And  midway  of  the  radiant  floods 

Hangs  silently  the  boat. 

The  sea  is  but  another  sky, 

The  sky  a  sea  as  well, 

And  which  is  earth  and  which  the  heavens 
.  The  eye  can  scarcely  tell. 

So  when  for  me  life's  latest  hour 

Soft  passes  to  its  end, 
May  glory,  born  of  earth  and  heaven, 

The  earth  and  heaven  blend. 

Flooded  with  light  the  spirits  float, 

With  silent  rapture  glow, 
Till  where  earth  ends  and  heaven  begins 

The  soul  shall  scarcely  know. 

NOVEMBER. 

Summer  is  gone ;  but  summer  days  return ; 
The  winds  and  frosts  have  stripped  the  woodlands  bare, 
Save  for  some  clinging  foliage  here  and  there; 

Then  as  if,  pitiful,  her  heart  did  yearn, 

Nature,  the  loving  mother,  lifts  her  urn 
And  pours  the  stream  of  life  to  her  spent  child: 
The  desert  air  grows  strangely  soft  and  mild, 

And  in  his  veins  the  long-fled  ardors  burn. 

So,  when  we  pass  the  mid-years  of  our  lives, 
And,  sad  or  glad,  we  feel  our  work  nigh  done, 
There  come  to  us  with  sudden,  swift  returns, 
The  glow,  the  thrill,  which  show  that  youth  survives, 
That — though  through  softening  mists — still  shines  the  sun; 
And  in  our  souls  the  Indian  summer  burns. 


jjarmt  Ijfinglmv  jfwa//. 

Born  in  Portland,  .Tune  19,  1819;  lives  in  Boston.  Mrs.  Sewall's  poems  have  found  a 
place  in  the  cyclopedias,  and  several  of  them  are  likely  to  live.  The  first  poem  herewith 
presented,  one  of  her  early  efforts,  has  been  much  admired. 


WHY  THUS  LONGING. 
Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 
For  the  far  off,  the  unattained'and  dim; 
While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 


HAERIET  WIN  SLOW  SEW  ALL.  247 

Wouldst  tliou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still; 
Leaf  and  Hower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching, 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee, 
Thou  no  ray  of  life  or  joy  canst  throw; 
If  no  silken  cord  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe. 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own; 
If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten,, 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world  renown, 
Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 
Canst  thou  win  or  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 
E^ery  day  a  rich  reward  will  give; 
Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live.* 


CONSOLA. 

The  worldling  oft  in  curious  wonder  glances 

At  the  meek  air  of  quiet  Quakeress, 
But  ne'er  divines  the  rebel  thoughts  and  fancies 

That  riot,  'neath  that  placid  mien  and  dress. 
Consola,  reared  with  tender  supervision, 

In  strict  coiiformance  to  the  Quaker  rules, 
Confessed  to  many  a  treacherous  intuition, 

Never  yet  learned  or  unlearned  in  the  schools. 
Forbidden  longings,  innocent  and  human, 

She,  secretly  impenitent,  repressed; 
For,  hovering  still  between  the  child  and  woman, 

She  had  not  found  the  courage  to  protest. 
An  eye  had  she  for  all  the  alluring  graces 

Of  air  and  dress  by  pretty  worldlings  worn — 
The  flowing  fall  of  ribbons,  robes  and  laces, 

The  tints  that  mock  the  sunset  and  the  dawn. 
She  was  content  to  enjoy  this  decoration— 

Or  tried  to  be  —in  others'  dress  alone, 
But  ventured  on  one  little  innovation 


248  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE, 

To  mitigate  the  primness  of  her  own. 
Deftly  a  silken  pocket  she  embroidered, 

To  don,  or  doff,  if  elders  thought  it  sin ; 
And  lovingly  she  o'er  the  labor  loitered, 

Weaving  her  fancies  and  her  hopes  therein. 
Would  Luther  notice  it  and  think  it  pretty  ? 

Would  he  like  rose,  or  blue,  or  lilac  best  ? 
Or  would  he  criticise,  and  think — O  pity ! — 

Her  heart  by  foolish  vanity  possessed  ? 
Luther  at  meeting  waited  her  arrival, 

Knew  the  old  bay,  and  helped  her  to  alight; 
But  what  he  saw  was  not  the  embroidered  trifle, 

Had  it  been  twenty  times  as  fair  and  bright. 
He  saw  the  blue  eyes  with  long  lashes  shaded, 

Whose  speaking  power  enhanced  the  charm  of  words 
That  seemed  to  sweetest  music  modulated, 

Dearer  to  him  than  morning  song  of  birds. 
He  saw  the  roseate  glow  that,  coming,  going, 

Unconsciously  revealed  each  varying  mood, 
The  ruling  one  an  artless  overflowing 

Of  loving  kindness  and  solicitude. 
Long  had  he  sought  in  vain  for  an  occasion 

To  tell  his  love,  and  this  day  he  had  planned 
To  leave  a  simple,  written  declaration 

Safely  within  her  little  greeting  hand. 
But  watchful  eyes  in  close  approximation 

Thwarted  his  dear  design,  and,  sorely  tried, 
On  entering  church,  with  sudden  desperation, 

He  dropped  it  in  the  pocket  at  her  side. 
She,  all  unconscious  of  its  intervention, 

To  serious  things  devoutly  turned  her  thought, 
And  soon  commanded  her  enrapt  attention 

The  ministration  of  Lucretia  Mott. 
With  eloquent,  persuasive  exhortation, 

She  pictured  slavery,  in  its  woe  and  sin, 
And  roused  the  conscience  of  the  congregation 

To  feel  its  own  complicity  therein. 
Consola,  with  the  gentle  sect  to  screen  her, 

Had  little  known  of  suffering,  wrong  or  thrall, 
And  all  the  woman  dormant  yet  within  her 

Rose  in  response  to  that  resistless  call. 
It  lent  new  force  to  long-accepted  teaching, 

To  life  and  love  a  larger  meaning  gave ; 
And  leaving  church  she  said,  with  eyes  beseeching, 

"O  Luther,  let  us  labor  for  the  slave!" 
At  home,  her  former  mood  severely  scorning, 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  &EWALL.  249 


The  embroidered  bauble  far  away  she  tossed, 
And,  gathered  up  with  refuse  of  the  morning, 

By  accident  'twas  carried  off  and  lost. 
Luther,  endeavoring  to  frame  excuses 

That  might  explain  a  silence  so  remiss, 
Forgiving  said,  "The  tender  heart  refuses 

To  answer  no,  yet  cannot  answer  yes." 
But  with  his  grief  he  manfully  contended, 

And  all  his  youthful  force  and  fervor  threw 
Into  the  larger  struggle  which  impended — 

The  cause  of  Freedom,  and  Consola's  too. 
Together,  with  indomitable  ardor, 

They  breasted  prejudice,  they  laughed  at  scorn, 
While  he,  solicitous  to  guide  and  guard  her, 

Smoothed  the  rough  path,  intent  to  help  or  warn. 
To  this  enlarging  labor  dedicated, 

They  daily  grew  in  a  diviner  grace, 
And  into  words  far-reaching  he  translated 

The  appealing  pity  of  her  speaking  face. 
The  sudden  vision  of  a  sweeter  blessing 

Would  sometimes  gleam  athwart  them  and  above, 
While  in  each  other's  friendship  still  confessing 

A  dearer  charm  than  any  other's  love, 
Until,  in  an  old  chest  by  chance  neglected, 

After  three  years  of  earnest  effort  passed, 
Its  precious  contents  safe  and  unsuspected, 

The  long-lost  pocket  came  to  light  at  last. 
And  then  the  past  rose  clear  and  plain  before  her 

His  oft-revealed  but  ne'er-intruded  love, 
His  fending  foresight 'like  an  aegis  o'er  her, 

His  ready  sympathy  even  help  above. 
She  sought  him  soon,  confusedly  explaining 

How  on  that  day  the  pocket  went  astray, 
And  now  was  found;  but  here  her  courage  waning, 

She  paused,  and  turned  her  tell-tale  face  away. 
He  flushed,  then  paled,  with  doubt  and  longing  rifted, 

And  while  hope  wavering  still  seemed  afar, 
Her  tearful,  tender  eyes  to  his  she  lifted, 

Revealing  heaven— with  the  gates  ajar. 


WORLDLY-MINDEDNESS. 
O  bounteous  world,  against  thy  foes  reviling, 

Thy  earnest  champion  I  have  been  for  years, 
Nor  little  cause  though  I  might  have  for  smiling, 

Would  I  traduce  thee  as  a  vale  of  tears. 


is 


250  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE.  • 

Even  methinks  within  heaven's  starry  portals 
I  might  be  homesick  thinking  there  of  thee, 

And  angels  I  have  known  though  only  mortals 
As  fair  and  good  as  I  would  wish  to  see. 

And  yet  my  love  is  not  a  blind  adherence ; 

Thy  ills  and  errors  I  would  help  to  mend; 
Yet  shrink  with  awe  from  hasty  interference 

In  plans  too  vast  for  me  to  comprehend. 

Yet  couldst  thou  know  what  dreams  of  high  endeavor, 

What  golden  visions  of  a  destiny, 
Fairer  perhaps  than  any  thou  hast  ever 

For  thyself  imaged,  I  have  dreamed  for  thee. 

Down  the  long  ages  picturing  thy  progression, 
Till  all  thy  youthful  errors  are  outgrown, 

And  Death  is  only  as  a  dim  tradition, 
A  monster  of  the  infant  planet  known. 

How  all  thy  revolutions  and  diseases 

Have  seemed  rude  struggles  after  health  and  light, 
How  ready  when  the  actual  displeases 

My  fancy  is  to  take  that  "fond  old  flight." 

Thou  might  forgive  if  I  have  failed  in  doing 
Nor  deem  it  from  a  want  of  heart  or  will — 

Though  thankfully  the  smallest  good  pursuing, 
I  long  in  larger  ways  to  serve  thee  still. 


MY  WINGS. 

AFTER   SKATING. 

Let  angels  wear  at  Art's  decree 
The  eagle's  pondrous  pinions, 

And  iiondescriptal  hybrids  be 
'Twixt  fowl  and -fair  dominions. 

For  me  a  less  imposing  pair, 

A  humbler  flight  suffices, 
My  wings  upon  my  feet  I  wear, 

As  Mercury's  device  is. 

And  when  the  winds  add  theirs  to  mine, 
And  come  from  favoring  quarters, 

As  he  o'erflies  with  his  the  skies, 
So  I  with  mine  the  waters. 


THANKFUL  PITTS  NOECEOSS  WILLIAMSON.  251 

Their  magic  strokes  like  fairies'  wand 

To  warmer  realms  transport  me, 
And  vistas  opening  beyond, 

Flash  luringly  athwart  me ; 

And  bluer  heavens  above  me  bend, 

And  balmier  airs  attend  me, 
And  spell-bound  deeps  their  service  lend 

To  forward  and  befriend  me. 

The  waters  from  their  wintry  walls 

Seem  into  billows  breaking, 
The  snow-drifts  change  to  foamy  falls, 

The  woods  to  life  are  waking, 

And  move  to  meet  me  as  I  fly, 

And  all  my  joy  repeating, 
Wave  their  inviting  arms  on  high, 

And  bend  to  give  me  greeting. 

When  poised  upon  my  wings  I  float, 

The  blue  above  and  under, 
The  earth  each  moment  more  remote, 

More  near  the  world  of  wonder: 

And  all  the  winds  come  sweeping  by, 

With  spirit  voices  freighted; 
I  pause  entranced  to  ask  if  I 

Am  dreaming  or  translated. 


hank/fat  jjitk 


Thankful  P.  N.  Williamson  was  born  in  Industry,  Maine,  Aug.  30,  1819— the  youngest  of 
six  children.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  nine  years  old,  and  the  family  removed  to  New 
Sharon,  where  her  girlhood  was  spent.  She  early  fitted  herself  for  teaching,  and  engaged  in 
that  occupation  until  her  marriage,  which  occurred  Aug.  30, 1847,  when  she  married  "VVm. 
F.  Williamson,  who  was  also  a  successful  teacher  of  common  schools.  During  her  girl 
hood,  she  wrote  occasionally  in  verse,  and  published  some  of  her  pieces  over  the  sig 
nature  of  "  Viola."  The  Maine  Farmer,  a  paper  called  The  Repository,  and  an 
anti-slavery  paper  known  as  the  Liberty  Standard,  were  the  papers  where  the  most  of 
her  earlier  pieces  appeared.  She  wrote  some  spirited  anti-slavery  poems;  but  as  she 
never  regarded  herself  as  a  poet,  she  took  no  pains  to  preserve  or  to  publish  her  best 
things.  She  was  especially  apt  in  writing  verses  for  donation  parties,  alburn  quilts,  etc. 
After  her  marriage  she  lived  in  New  Sharon  for  many  years,  where  her  three  daughters 
were  born.  In  the  spring  of  1881,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  removed  to  Augusta  with  their 
youngest  daughter,  where  they  still  reside.  Their  ruby  wedding  was  celebrated  Aug.  30, 
1887.  Mrs.  Williamson  has  written  occasionally  for  the  Farmer,  the  FarmitvjtoH  Chron 
icle  and  Gospel  Banner  within  a  few  years,  under  the  pseudonyme  of  "Laona." 


THE  SILVER  LINING. 
We  know  the  stars  are  shining  still, 

Though  clouds  obscure  the  sight, 
For  we  are  sure  the  lofty  sky 

Is  bathed  in  azure  light. 


252  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Could  we  but  feel,  when  sorrow  comes, 

And  trials  bar  the  way,— 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  clouds 

There  shines  another  day ; — 

We  would  not  mourn,  though  in  our  path 

Few  blossoms  seem  to  grow; 
Stern  duty's  call  must  be  obeyed,— 

Our  Father  wills  it  so. 

And  when  the  summons  we  shall  hear, 
Which  sure  to  all  must  come, 

The  "silver  lining"  we  shall  see 
In  our  eternal  home. 


This  gentleman 


Born  in  Deering  October,  1819,  and  died  in  that  place,  Dec.  26,  1877. 
was  for  several  years  in  the  bookstore  of  J.  S.  Bailey,  under  the  Exchange,  in  Portland. 
From  this  city  he  went  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  where  he  entered  the  office  of  the  Con 
gressional  Glohe,  then  owned  and  published  by  William  C.  Rives.  He  was  the  manager 
of  the  establishment  for  over  twenty  years,  and  when  the  senior  Mr.  Rives  died  became 
a  partner  with  the  sons  and  son-in-law  of  the  former,  and  still  remained  manager  in  this 
verv  profitable  business.  When,  in  1873,  Congress  sent  the  reports  to  the  public  printer, 
the  Globe's  mission  was  over,  and  after  the  projection  of  the  National  tfmow,  Mr. 
Lvnch's  paper,  the  Globe  Building  and  all  the  stock  were  sold  to  him,  which  event  libera 
ted  Mr  Bailey  and  he  retired  to  try  and  regain  his  health;  but  he  was  too  much  exhausted 
to  rally  With  his  other  qualifications,  Mr.  Bailey  was  a  metrical  writer  of  marked 
ability,  and  contributed  frequently  to  the  Portland  Transcript,  and  other  literary  pub 
lications. 

THE  REVOLVING  LIGHT. 

BOSTON    HARBOK. 

How  coyly  from  the  ocean's  pulsing  breast, 
Beneath  the  wide  unfolded  shades  of  night,— 

Now  full  and  luminous,  and  now  depressed, 
The  rays  come  up  of  yon  fair  Beacon  Light  ! 

One  moment,  and  its  smile  abroad  is  cast, 
Winning  the  veil  from  off  the  water's  face; 

Another,  and  that  transient  gleam  hath  passed, 
And  night  and  ocean  once  again  embrace. 

That  beam  the  mariner  from  far  doth  hail, 

As  the  dear  harbinger  that  tells  of  home; 
Then  trims  with  nice  observance  quick  each  sail, 

Impatient  for  the  bliss  that  soon  shall  come. 

And  not  alone  the  roamer  of  the  sea 

That  constant  changing  ray  with  gladness  greets; 

But  one  whose  lot  is  drearier,  doomed  to  be 
A  dweller  midst.  the  city's  crowded  streets;— 


GEORGE  ALBEE  T  B  AILET.  253 

One  who  hath  toiled  for  wealth  and  found  it  not; 

Hath  cared  for  fame,  and  seen  his  hope's  eclipse; 
And  found  (if  e'er  he  found)  the  fruit  he  sought, 

Like  apples  by  the  Dead  Sea,  on  his  lips. 

What  though  last  morn,  rose-tinted  hopes  were  mine, 
And  bright  and  far  was  Fancy's  vista  spread? 

To-day's  warm  sun  but  saw  those  joys  decline, — 
To-morrow's  shall  behold  them  pale  and  dead. 

Permit  me  not,  O  God !  with  foolish  moan 

Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  justice  to  arraign; 
But,  meek  and  trusting-bosomed,  let  me  own 

The  graciousness  of  all  Thou  dost  ordain. 

*  *  *  ***** 
Since  Pride  hath  seared  me  with  her  hellish  brand, 

The  guilt  of  Scorn  unknown,  too,  must  I  plead? 
The  slightest  thing  that  is,  I  have  not  banned, 
Nor  barred  its  claim  to  honor  from  my  creed. 

'T  was  from  the  hair-dropped  blade  above  his  head, 

His  wisest  lore  the  tyrant's  guest  did  learn; 
And  he  who  Scotia's  clans  to  glory  led, 

An  humble  insect's  teachings  did  not  spurn. 

He,  too, — ha!  whence  that  voice?— it  bade  me  mark 

How  truthfully,  fair  Light !  thou  picturest, 
In  thy  bright  beams,  soon  changed  to  shadows  dark, 

The  hopes  and  fears  that  strive  within  my  breast! 

And  to  my  doubting  heart  it  seemed  to  say, — 

"Though  all  the  props  thou  lean'st  upon  be  gone, 

Strength  shall  be  given  to  hold  thee  on  thy  way! — 
Despair  thou  not! — bear  up  and  struggle  on!" 

And  strength  is  given  to  rend  in  twain  each  band 
Which  binds  the  spirit  that  would  fain  be  free, 

As  in  this  calm  autumnal  eve  I  stand 
And  gaze  from  out  my  casement  upon  theel 

*  *  *  ***** 

E'en  now,  I  see  dispart  the  clouds  of  gloom; 

A  silvery  ray  hath  bid  my  fears  surcease : 
And  lo!  o'er  Life's  unresting  waves  uploom 

The  far  off,  swift  returning  sails  of  Peace ! 


SONG.— LOYE  AND  DEATH. 

The  one  stalks  forth  with  lifted  dart, 
One  trips  with  flower-wreathed  bow 


254  THE  P OE TS  OF  MA  JNE. 

And  each  brings  down  the  haughty  heart, 

And  each  lifts  up  the  low ! 
They  free  from  out  the  realms  of  Pain— 

They  free  from  Ill's  control, 
And  with  a  magic  touch  do  gain 

To  fairer  life  the  soul ! 

O  tear  the  sketch  whose  title  saith, — 
"  The  vulture  and  the  dove;'' 

And  write  thereon  the  name  of  "Death — 
The  champion  of  Love!" 

For  such  the  faith  the  heart  derives 

.     From  that  recurring -scene, 

Where  Love  with  Pride  for  conquest  strives, 
And  Death  steps  in  between ! 


jjkindutrcl 


Isaac  G.  Blanchard  was  born  in  Charlotte,  Me.,  Oct.  29,  1819,  and  died  at  Highlands, 
Fla.,  Feb.  5,  1885.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  David  and  Saviah  Blanchard,  who  were 
married  in  Boston,  and  settled  soon  after  in  Charlotte,  which  was  then  unnamed,  a  spot 
in  the  primitive  woods,  containing  but  a  few  scattered  settlers,  situated  eighteen  miles 
from  Eastport.  The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  a  precocious  boy,  exceedingly  fond  of 
books,  a  lover  of  the  woods  and  brooks,  clouds,  sunshine,  rain  and  snow,—  all  manifesta 
tions  and  creations  of  nature.  He  got  such  education  as  his  town  afforded  in  the  dis 
trict  school;  furthered  by  earnest  study  by  himself,  anil  went  a  year  to  Hopkinton  Acad 
emy,  in  New  Hampshire.  An  early  convert  to  Christianity,  he  lectured  on  Millerism, 
but  doubts  arising  in  his  mind  he  waited  for  more  light,  and  drifted  away  from  the 
church,  never  to  return.  In  his  native  town  he  held  the  offices  of  Town  Clerk  and  School 
Committee;  wrote  all  through  his  youth  and  early  manhood  both  prose  and  poetry  for 
newspapers,  notably  the  Kastport  Sentinel',  taught  district  schools  ar.d  worked  on  his 
father's  farm.  His  contributions  to  the  press  elicited  frequent  praise  from  the  papers  to 
which  he  sent  them,  and  John  Neal  gave  him  a  handsome  introduction  to  the  public. 
He  served  a  three  years'  apprenticeship  to  the  printing  business  at  the  Post  port  Sentinel 
office,  at  the  same  time  learning  Pitman's  phonography,  teaching  it  through  the  mails, 
corresponding  largely  with  phonographers,  and  lecturing  on  the  subject.  In  1849  Mr. 
Blanchard  went  to  Boston,  Mass.,  and  began  setting  type  for  Damrell  '&  Moore,  then  for 
the  American  Cabinet,  a  literary  and  scientific  journal.  Soon  after,  he  was  promoted  to 
the  editorial  room  and  became  associate  editor.  About  1850.  in  partnership  with  C.  C. 
Tyler,  of  P^astport,  he  bought  the  East  Boston  Ledger  and  remained  with  it  twelve  years. 
Finding  the  business  unremunerative,  and  his  health  demanding  a  change,  he  sold  out, 
and  within  the  following  year  became  editor-in-chief  of  the  Iloxton  Daily  Voice,  pub 
lished  by  the  striking  printers  of  Boston  on  the  cooperative  plan.  In  four  years  this 
enterprise  yielded  to  sharp  competition  with  the  older  dailies  after  a  valiant  struggle,  in 
which  Mr.  Blanchard  did  excellent  service  to  the  cause  of  labor.  In  1870  he  published  a 
small  collection  of  his  labor  songs  under  the  title  of  "  Rhymes  for  the  Times."  After  the 
failure  of  the  Voice,  he  undertook  many  things  Avith  little  success,  his  business  at  one 
time  being  destroyed  by  the  great  Boston  fire  of  1872.  In  the  early  spring  of  1877  he 
went  to  Florida  to  find  a  gentler  climate  for  his  advancing  years  and  to  start  an  orange 
grove.  Here  he  found  employment  for  both  hand  and  brain.  What  with  labor  on  his 
farm,  in  which  he  took  great  pride,  teaching  school,  taking  an  active  and  leading  part  in 
all  movements  for  the  development  of  his  settlement  and  section,  writing  for  the  Florida 
papers,  producing  a  good  deal  of  poetry  (not  yet  published,')  and  painting  landscapes,  for 
which  he  had  no  ordinary  gift,  he  lived  a  busy  life  in  the  land  of  the  sun.  The  following 
characteristic  sketch  of  this  then  young  writer,  appeared  in  the  Portland  Tribyne  for 
Feb.  23,  1842,  from  the  pen  of  John  Neal:  "The  following  scrap  of  poetry,  which  was 
written  by  an  uneducated  farmer's  boy,  a  long  way  down-east,  I  have  begged  of  the 
author  for  you,  under  a  promise  to  bring  the  public  acquainted  with  him  through  the 
Brother  Jonathan.  I  am  no  friend  to  scribblers  or  scribbling,  as  you  know-  and  still 
less  to  the  manufacturing  of  poetry  per  order,  instead  of  digging  for  an  honest  liveli 
hood.  But  when  I  see  a  lump  of  the  true  ore  like  this,  and  find  it  in  the  possession  of  a 
poor  fellow  who  cannot  work,  and  must  either  play  or  die,  I  can  't  for  the  life  of  me, 
bring  myself  to  pass  by  on  the  other  side,  and  leave  him  to  perish." 


ISAAC  GRAY  BLANCHARD.  255 

TO  THE  NORTHERN"  LIGHTS. 

Ye  gorgeous  visions  of  the  northern  sky, 

Mysterious  and  sublime ! 
Who  lit  your  brilliant  lights  on  high  ? 
Stream  ye  alone  in  idle  revelry 

Above  our  cloudy  clime, 
Without  an  aim,  or  nature,  more 
Than  mortal  vision  can  explore  ? 

Or  have  ye  some  high,  unknown  ministry  ? 
Whence  sprang  ye  into  birth  ? 

In  distant  realms  unseen  ? 
Or  claim  ye  sisterhood  with  earth  ? 
And  will  your  strange,  ethereal  sheen 

Fade  with  her  fading  green  ? 

Man's  wisdom  has  not  told — 

Ye  are  a  mystery, 

Which  time  perhaps  shall  ne'er  unfold; 
Philosophy,  whose  eagle  pinion  bold 
Has  conquered  space,  and  brought  the  planets  near 

To  her  inspecting  eye, 
Has  sought  in  vain  to  fathom  you, 
Or  tell  the  office  that  ye  do. 

Ye  are  of  latter  date — 

Say— are  ye  for  a  sign, 
Lit  by  the  hand  divine, 

Whence  earth  should  read  her  coming  fate  ? 
Signs  shall  be  set  in  heaven, 

And  wonders  meet  the  eye, 
And  naming  prodigies  be  given 

Within  the  upper  sky. 

Ye  may  be  such — yet  man  would  be 

Most  backward  thus  to  interpret  ye, 
Who  glides  in  blind  security 
Down  Time's  exhausting  tide; 

Puts  far  away  the  evil  day, 
Or  dreams  that  he  shall  dwell  for  aye 

In  all  his  lust  and  pride. 

Whate'er  ye  are,  ye  have  an  aim, 

For  He  has  lit  your  wondrous  flame, 
Who  fashions  not  a  flower  in  vain, 


256  THE  POET 'S  OF  MAINE. 


And  howe'er  fruitlessly  we  pry 
Into  your  inward  mystery, 

One  feature  still  is  plain — 
Like  as  in  all  His  works,  sublime  or  fair, 
We  trace  the  glories  of  the  Godhead  there ! 


WHAT  ARE  YOU  THINKING? 

A  POOR  MAN'S  POOR  OPINION  OF  OUR  MONEY  SYSTEM. 

What  are  you  thinking,  neighbor, 

Who  were  so  clear  to  see 
A  good  chance,  and  to  go  for't, 

Ahead  of  such  as  me  ? 
You  allus  could  make  money, 

And  used  to  put  things  through; 
You  scarce  stopped  to  be  civil, 

You  had  so  much  to  do. 

But  now  you're  looking  dreamy; 

Your  hands  are  by  your  side ; 
You  stop— and  turn— and  saunter,— 

You're  waiting  for  the  tide? 
The  tide  flows  in  its  season, 

And  it's  what  I  want  to  know, 
If  you  can  give  a  reason 

Why  trade  should  ebb  and  flow? 

The  mouths  are  many  as  ever, 

And  keep  increasin',  too; 
And  hands  are  willin',  neighbor, 

But  there's  scarce  a  turn  to  do. 
The  cobbler  can't  buy  clothing, 

The  tailor  can't  buy  shoes; 
And  trade,  you  see,  is  dying 

Of  so  many  Nothing-to-do's. 

And  all  for  want  of  money, 

That  men  can  't  eat  nor  wear ! 
I'll  tell  you  what  T m  thinking — 

Excuse,  sir,  I  could  swear, — 
I  wish  the  blamed  invention 

Sunk  a  thousand  leagues  at  sea, 
So  trade  would  be  unburdened, 

And  common  sense  set  free. 


ISAAC  GRAY  BLANCHARD.  257 


D'ye  s'pose  the  honest  people 

Would  n't  find  the  honest  way, 
And  the  cobbler  get  his  clothing, 

And  the  tailor  have  his  pay? 
D'ye  s'pose  that  trade  would  suffer 

'Cause  the  usurer  didn't  thrive — 
He  that 's  sucked  the  blood  of  labor 

Till  its  skercely  left  alive? 

You  cannot  see  my  point,  sir? 

'Cause  you're  looking  t'other  way! 
I  wish  you  would  look  fairly 

At  what  I  try  to  say. 
If  "money  makes  the  mare  go," — 

The  thing  we  want  to  do, — 
And  by  the  self-same  virtoo, 

It  stops  the  critter  too; 

If  your  money-breeding  money 

So  very  ill  behaves, 
As  to  lift  the  few  to  luxury, 

The  many  sink  to  slaves ; 
Till  men,  like  wares,  are  measured 

In  dollars,  cents  and  dimes, 
And  the  priest  belies  his  Bible 

To  hide  the  usurer's  worst  of  crimes, — 

Then  there's  suthin'  wrong  with  money, 

Suthin'  devilish,  you  may  say; 
And  it 's  no  particular  wonder 

There's  just  the  devil  to  pay! 
Say — mustn't  a  money  system, 

That  offers  fortune's  lure, 
Fewer  and  richer  make  the  wealthy, 

More  and  poorer  make  the  poor  ? 

Yet  it's  said  in  all  the  papers, 

If  speculation  starts, 
'Twill  move  the  hands  of  labor 

In  all  our  mills  and  marts. 
"There'll  be  prosperous  times  next  season," 

Says  one,  "or  I'm  no  seer; 
And  some  will  make  their  thousands ; 

Course,  the  people '11  get  a  sheer." 


258  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Not  much.     Some  cunning  schemers 

May,  like  enough,  get  rich, 
And  want  new  silks  and  carpets, 

And  hats  and  boots  and  sich; 
And  trade  be  set  a-going 

Till  the  hats  and  boots  are  made; 
And  then  "the  market's  glutted!" 

There's  dearth  of  work  and  trade. 

So  speculation's  see-saw 

Keeps  up  its  idle  play 
Over  the  back  of  labor, — 

That9 s  the  "business"  of  to-day! 
Paying  Paul  by  robbing  Peter 

Is  all  it's  ever  done; 
Poor  labor  bears  the  burden, 

But  never  shares  the  fun. 

Keep  the  people's  pockets  empty, 

Count  the  toilers  but  as  brutes, 
And  of  course  the  market's  glutted 

With  a  few  snobs'  hats  and  boots. 
Why  not  pay  'em,  so  that  they,  too, 

Can  buy  your  goods  like  men  ? 
Make  the  buying  thousands  millions, 

You  won't  glut  the  market  then; 

'Cause,  when  the  working  people 
Get  their  sheer  of  what  is  done, 

There'll  be  no  sight  for  fortunes, 
And  men  don't  work  for  fun. 

Don't  think — the  thought  is  impious! — 
That,  when  Justice  takes  the  lead, 

There'll  be  shirking  more  than  working- 
Tyrant  Waste  for  tyrant  Greed. 

Be  the  love  of  gold  uprooted, 

There'll  be  left  the  love  of  praise. 
And  this  will  bring  the  people 

Into  relf-respecting  ways. 
The  working  day '11  be  shorter, 

The  worker's  meed  be  more, 
And  joyful  labor's  chorus 

Will  charm  both  sea  and  shore. 


ISAAC  GRAY  BLANCHARD. 


But  of  such  good  times  the  chances 

Are  surely  not  right  smart, 
While  we're  taught  "the  root  of  evil' 

Springs  nat'rally  from  the  heart ! 
And  if  heaven  threatened  to  tumble, 

Or  such  a  thing  might  be, 
The  usurer 'd  not  knock  under; 

He'd  rather  wait  and  see! 

I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  thinking: 

The  nation's  stultified! 
Like  a  corpse,  this  cussed  system 

To  its  culprit  back  is  tied; 
In  its  dream  of  "  making  money," 

Its  delirium  of  "  per  cent.," 
It  drivels  like  an  idiot, 

And  seems  on  ruin  bent. 

O  heavens!  can't  our  wise  ones 

Unscale  their  eyes  in  time 
To  stay  the  fearful  increase 

Of  poverty  and  crime, 
Ere  'cumulated  evils 

Come  on  us  like  a  flood, 
And  the  fiend  of  revolution 

Is  shrieking,  "Bread  or  Blood?" 


O  TOUCH  THAT  TENDER  CHORD  AGAIN! 

O  touch  that  tender  chord  again ! 

Recall  that  tone ; 
It  seemed  the  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  summers  gone; 
Something  like  that  my  mother  sung 
When  I  was  sorrowless  and  young, 
And  since  she  died  no  other  tongue 

The  note  has  known. 

O  minstrel,  wake  the  note  again 

To  childhood  dear, 
For  while  the  loved  and  long-lost  strain 

Thrills  on  my  ear, 
A  happy  child  again  I  be, 
Sporting  beside  my  mother's  knee, 
And  that  clear  voice  that  sung  to  me 

Again  I  hear. 


260  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

I  see  our  cottage,  foliage-crowned, 

As  in  those  days, — 
The  summer  sky  spreads  round  and  round, 

A  dreamy  haze: 
Knitting  within  the  open  door 
She  sits  and  sings  her  ditty  o'er, 
While  with  her  thread  upon  the  floor 
The  kitten  plays. 

O  touch  that  chord  again,  for  now 

I'm  old  and  gray, 
And  these  sad  wrinkles  on  my  brow 

Tell  sorrow's  sway: 

Like  Northern  night  my  heart  had  grown — 
For  time  no  light  of  love  had  known, 
Till  moved  by  the  remembered  tone 

Of  that  sweet  lay. 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

Never  is  given  e'en  a  floweret's  cup 

But  heaven  has  dews  to  fill  it  up ; 
Never  a  streamlet  sighs  for  the  sea 

But  is  somewhere  found  a  passage  free: 
And  never,  O  never  the  human  soul 

A  longing  feels  beyond  control 
That  can  be  counted  all  a  dream, 

For  somewhere  in  God's  perfect  scheme 
The  answer  is,  and  shall  appear 

To  crown  the  bliss  of  some  benignant  year. 


The  Rt.  Rev.  Alexander  Burgess,  S.  T.  P.,  First  Bishop  of  Quincy,  -was  born  in  Provi 
dence,  R.  I..  Oct.  31. 1819.  He  is  the  son  of  the  Hon.  Thomas  Burgess,  for  many  years  a 
Judge  in  Rhode  island,  who  died  in  1856.  His  mother's  maiden  name  was  Mary  Mackie. 
She  died  in  1835.  Both  parents  were  natives  of  Wareham.  Mass.  He  graduated  at  Brown 
University,  1838.  and  at  the  General  Theological  Seminary.  1841  "Was  ordered  Deacon 
in  St.  -John's.  Providence.  R.  I..  Nov.  3.  1842,  and  ordained  Priest  in  Grace  church,  Prov 
idence,  All  Saints'  Day,  Nov.  1,  1843.  From  November,  1843,  to  Easter,  1854.  he  was  Kec- 
tor  of  St.  Mark's.  Augusta,  Me.  He  then  removed  to  Portland,  Me.,  and  was  Hector  of 
St.  Luke's  from  1854-G7.  Removed  to  New  York  mid  was  Rector  of  St.  .John's,  Brooklyn, 
L.  I.,  18G7-C9;  thence  removed  to  Massachusetts,  and  was  Rector  of  Christ  church,  Spring- 
Held.  December.  18f9.  until  his  eltvatirn  to  the  Jpiso<  pite.  He  married,  first,  Mary  Wil 
liams  Selden,  at  Augusta,  daughter  of  Calvin  and  Harriet  S.  Selden.  of  Norridgewock, 
Maine;  she  died  in  Portland.  Me.,  April  22.  185C.  and  he  married,  second,  Maria  A.  How 
ard,  daughter  of  Hon.  Joseph  Howard,  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court.  Portland,  Me.  He 
was  a  Deputy  to  the  General  Convention  from  1844  to  1877.  both  inclusive,  and  repre 
sented  the  Dioceses  of  Maine.  Long  Island  and  Massachusetts  during  that  time.  In  1877 
he  was  President  of  the  House  of  Deputies.  He  also  served  as  a  member  of  the  Stand- 


ALEXANDER  BURGESS.  261 

ing  Committee  of  the  three  Dioceses  just  mentioned.  He  was  consecrated  First  Bishop 
of  Quincy.  in  Christ  church,  Springfield,  Mass.,  May  15,  1878  Upon  the  organization  of 
the  Province  of  Illinois,  comprising  the  three  Dioceses  of  Illinois  (now  Chicago),  Quincy 
and  Springfield,  in  the  State  of  Illinois.  Bishop  Burgess  was  elected  tirst  Primus  of  the 
Province.  He  is  the  author  of  printed  sermons,  addresses,  Sunday-school  question- 
books,  carols  and  hymns;  and  he  edited  the  Memoir  of  his  brother,  Bishop  George  Bur 
gess,  of  Maine.  Bishop  Burgess  has  visited  Europe  twice.  He  received  the  degree  of  S. 
T.  D.  from  Brown  University  in  1866;  also  from  Racine  College,  Wisconsin,  in  1882. 


AN  EASTER  CAROL. 

Bright  Easter  skies ! 

Fair  Easter  skies ! 

Our  Lord  is  risen, 

We,  too,  shall  rise. 

Nor  walls  of  stone,  hewn  firm  and  cold, 
Nor  Roman  soldiers,  brave  and  bold, 
Nor  Satan's  marshaled  hosts  could  keep 
The  pierced  hands  in  deathly  sleep ; 
Just  as  the  Easter  day-beams  dawn, 
Our  buried  Lord  is  risen  and  gone. 

Loud  Easter  bells! 

Rich  Easter  bells ! 

A  ransomed  world 

Your  chiming  tells. 
Let  hills  and  rocks  your  gladness  peal, 
Behold  the  stone  and  broken  seal ! 
Angels  in  white,  from  heaven's  bright  way, 
The  useless  clothes  together  lay; 
Then  sit  serene,  at  head  and  feet, 
The  earliest  saints  with  joys  to  greet. 

Green  Easter  fields ! 

Fair  Easter  fields ! 

Heaven's  first  ripe  fruit 

Death  conquered  yields. 
In  church-yards  wide  the  seed  we  sow, 
Beneath  the  Cross  the  wheat  shall  grow, 
One  Easter  Day  death's  reign  shall  end, 
And  golden  sheaves  shall  heavenward  send. 
Hail  the  blest  morn,  by  whose  glad  light 
Angels  shall  reap  the  harvest  white ! 

Sweet  Easter  flowers ! 
White  Easter  flowers ! 
From  heaven  descend 
Life-giving  showers. 


262  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Each  plant  that  bloomed  at  Eden's  birth 
Shall  blow  again  o'er  ransomed  earth: 
Pluck  lilies  rare  and  roses  sweet, 
And  strew  the  path  of  Jesus'  feet; 
Throw  fragrant  palms  before  our  King, 
And  wreathe  the  crown  the  saved  shall  bring. 

O  Christian  child! 

O  Christian  men! 

Our  Victor  Lord 

Shall  come  again. 

Wake  we  our  hearts  at  His  command; 
Lift  we  our  love  to  His  right  hand: 
With  warmest  hopes  to  Easter  skies, 
Stretch  we  our  arms  and  fix  our  eyes, 
Till  in  the  clouds  His  sign  we  see, 
And  quick  and  dead  shout  Jubilee. 


liotort  Jfnmhlin  Shillings. 

Robert  F.  Skillings  was  born  at  Bangs'  Island-now  Cushing's-  Portland  harbor  Oct. 
31,  1819,  and  has  always  lived  in  the  immediate  vicinity  with  the  exception  of  some  eight 
months  spent  in  Eastport,  and  two  voyages  to  the  West  Indies.  His  education  was  from 
a  teacher  hired  a  few  weeks  each  winter  in  the  sole  family  on  Bangs'  Island,  until  1834 
from  which  time  until  1840  he  had  the  benefit  of  six  terms  "of  twelve  weeks  each  by  cross 
ing  each  day  to  the  public  school  at  Peaks  Island.  He  was  early  identified  with  the  lob 
ster  industry,  and  has  a  son  now  quite  largely  engaged  in  the  business.  Mr.  S  married 
Harriet  Newell  Trefethen  of  House  Island.  Oct.  13, 1842,  and  moved  to  Peaks  Island  Dec 
15,  1843.  Though  a  Baptist,  he  has  affiliated  with  and  assisted  the  Methodist  Societv  on 
the  Island;  was  superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school  for  many  years,  and  in  1861  'was 
also  appointed  class  leader,  which  place  he  still  holds.  Mr.  S.  has  a  family  of  four  sons 
and  two  daughters,  all  of  whom  live  in  this  State,  in  prosperous  circumstaYices.  He  can 
also  boast  of  sixteen  grandchildren.  Mr.  Skillings  took  summer  boarders  sixteen  years 
and  has  had  the  honor  of  furnishing  accommodations  for  many  distinguished  persons  in 
governmental  and  professional  life.  One  of  his  last  guests  was  the  late  Prof.  Spencer  F 
Baird.  of  the  Smithsonian  Institute,  and  his  family.  Mr.  Skillings  was  one  of  the  first 
to  build  summer  cottages  at  Peaks  Island;  he  owns."  as  does  also  his  family,  quite  a  num 
ber  of  these  houses,  and  has  done  much  to  make  this  attractive  resort  popular. 


HOW  CAX  I  KEEP  FPvOM  GIYIXG  ? 

Over  against  the  treasury 

Emmanuel  was  sitting: 
The  rich  cast  in  of  their  great  wealth 

What  seemed  to  them  befitting. 
A  widow  came  and  gave  two  mites, 

Which  then  was  all  her  living; 
She  did  the  most  of  all  the  host — 

How  can  I  keep  from  giving? 


ROXERT  FllANKLJN  SHILLINGS. 


How  blest  the  man  who  knows  Thy  word, 

"Give  and  it  shall  be  given;" 
His  all  he  brings  unto  the  Lord, 

His  treasure!  is  in  heaven. 
Help  me,  dear  Lord,  that  I  may  give 

Thus  even  all  my  living; 
Since  of  Thy  bounty  I  receive, 

How  can  I  keep  from  giving? 


I  have  received  a  precious  gift, 

No  mortal  tongue  can  speak  it; 
The  like  is  ready  now  for  all 

Who  diligently  seek  it. 
I  can  but  sing  the  praise  of  Him 

From  whom  I  am  receiving; 
And  as  He  gives  Himself  to  me, 

How  can  I  keep  from  giving? 

To  love  Hie  Lord  with  all  Hie  heart, 

And  as  myself   my  neighbor, 
I  mean  to  strive  with  all  my  might, 

And  to  this  end  will  labor. 
And  may  I  never  faithless  prove, 

But  always  he  believing; 
For  while,  I  think  of  Thy  great,  love, 

How  can  I  keep  from  giviiig? 


TUP]  INVITATION. 


My  heart  shall  sing  of  Jesus, 

And  rest  in  perfect  peace, 
The  song  of  His  salvation 

Shall  never,  never  cease;; 
Bright  spiiitsnow  before  Him, 

I'roelaim  Him  Lord  and  King, 
"While  saints  on  eaith  adore  Him, 

And  to  His  glory  sing. 

My  song  shall  be  inviting, 
I  want  my  foes  to  come, 

And  with  my  fri<  mis  uniting, 
Together  travel  home. 


Ami  while,  we  are  believing, 
The,  world  shall  not,  defeat, 

For,  asking  and  receiving, 
Our  joy  shall  be  complete. 

Come,  all  my  fellow  sinners, 

While  it,  is  (-ailed  to-day, 
The  banquet  is  all  ready, 

So  let,  us  not  delay; 
The  invital  ion  's  given, 

To  each  of  us  'tis  sent, 
More  joy  shall  be  in  Heaven 

This  day  if  we  repent. 


264  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


wrid  <§.  4$. 


Mrs.  Harriet  N.  F.  Foss  was  born  at  Limington,  Me.,  in  1819.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Harriet  N.  Frost.  She  was  married  in  1838  to  Allen  W.  Foss,  and  settled  in  So.  Liming 
ton,  where  she  still  resides.  She  began  to  write  poetry  when  a  child,  and  has  sent  pieces, 
occasionally,  to  the  Maine  newspapers  for  publication. 


SLUMBER. 

When  weary  and  tired  of  the  things  of  earth, 
Of  its  empty  joys,  and  its  scenes  of  mirth, 
When  our  foes  perplex,  and  our  friends  are  few, 
And  many  prove  false,  whom  we  once  thought  true ; 
Come,  slumber,  o'er  an  aching  heart, 
And  bid  each  woe  from  it  depart. 

When  dark  clouds  veil  our  morning  sky, 
And  Hope's  bright  flowers  fade  and  die, 
When  disappointments  throng  our  way, 
And  lonely  through  the  world  we  stray, 

Come,  gentle  slumber,  and  bestow 
Bliss  which,  awake,  we  cannot  know. 

When  raging  sickness  dims  the  eye, 

Bidding  each  magic  pleasure  fly, 

When  grief  lies  heavy  on  the  breast, 

And  nought  around  affords  us  rest, 

Come,  peaceful  slumber,  and  convey 
Us  to  the  world  of  dreams  away. 


olumbid  (Sxrdntr. 


Columbia  Gardner  was  the  eldest  child  of  Ira  Gardner,  a  prosperous  farmer  and  prom 
inent  citizen  of  Buckfield,  Me.  She  was  born  in  Bucklield,  Sept.  23,  1820,  and  inherited 
from  her  father  great  strength  of  will  and  energy  of  character.  She  Avas  educated  in  the 
schools  of  Buckheld  and  at  Kent's  Hill,  and  she  early  evinced  an  aptitude  for  study  and 
literary  culture.  She  taught  school  several  terms  in  the  vicinity  of  her  home.  Soon 
after  arriving  at  the  age  of  21  years,  she  went  to  Baltimore  where  she  successfully 
engaged  in  teaching,  but  in  1843  she  left  that  city,  and  journeyed  alone  to  Memphis,  Tenn. 
There  were  then  no  railroads  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  her  journey  was  performed 
by  tedious  stages  and  canal  and  river  boats,  and  was  attended  with  some  perilous  adven 
tures  in  a  night  passage  over  the  Alleghany  Mountains.  She  engaged  in  teaching  in 
Memphis,  where  she  remained  four  years,  mingling  with  the  most  cultivated  society  of 
that  city,  visiting  many  places  of  historic  interest  in  Tennessee,  and  making  the  acquaint 
ance  of  many  of  the  most  prominent  men  of  the  day.  In  her  journal  she  records  a  pleas 
ant  interview  with  Henry  Clay,  and  a  visit  to  the  Hermitage,  where  she  saw  Andrew 
Jackson  during  his  last  illness,  and  received  the  blessing  of  that  stern  old  hero.  In 
August,  1847.  she  left  Memphis  and  located  in  New  Orleans  to  become  assistant  principal 
of  the  French  and  English  Seminary  of  that  city;  and  she  afterwards  became  principal 
and  proprietor  of  that  popular  educational  institution,  and  rose  to  the  highest  ranks  of 


COLUMBIA  GARDNER.  265 

her  profession.  She  won  a  Avide  circle  of  friends,  taking  high  rank  in  literary  circles, 
and  was  a  frequent  and  esteemed  contributor  of  both  prose  and  poetry  to  the  leading 
papers  of  the  Southwest,  over  the  pseudonyme  of  "  Byrama."  In  1850  she  made  a  visit 
to  the  home  of  her  youth,  but  soon  returned  and  resumed  her  duties  in  the  seminary.  In 
the  spring  of  1856  her  health  perceptibly  failed,  and  she  visited  a  friend  in  Mt.  Vernon, 
Ala.,  with  the  hope  of  improvement,  but  she  rapidly  sickened  and  died  of  pulmonary 
consumption,  on  the  16th  day  of  June,  at  the  age  of  35  years.  Miss  Gardner  was  a  woman 
of  large  physique  and  attractive  appearance,  and  she  possessed  all  the  characteristics 
of  a  brilliant  woman.  Her  poems  are  pervaded  with  sweetness  of  expression  and  a  rever 
ential  spirit,  and  often  with  a  sad  undertone  that  reflects  the  yearnings  of  her  heart  for 
her  beloved  Northern  home. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  LIFE. 

The  Flowers  of  life,  those  fragrant  flowers, 

They  bloom  mid  darkest  storms, 
And  in  the  saddest,  dreariest  path 

They  lift  their  loveliest  forms. 
What  if  we  feel  the  vengeful  thorn 

Within  the  brightest  bowers  ? 
We  know  that  round  our  loneliest  steps 

Still  bloom  these  cherished  flowers. 

They  cheer  us  on  our  weary  way 

With  calm  and  radiant  light — 
Drowned  with  a  verdure  ever  green 

And  beauty  ever  bright. 
The  storms  of  life,  whose  stings  we  feel, 

Then  let  us  never  heed, 
For  bees  may  suck  the  deadliest  juice, 

And  yet  no  poison  breed. 

Thus,  then,  the  noble  soul  when  forced 

Some  bitter  cup  to  drain, 
Though  sinking  'neath  affliction's  sting, 

Will  soon  revive  again ; 
Will  yield  for  each  repeated  pang 

But  generous  thoughts  and  deeds ; 
Still  seeking  for  these  scattered  flowers 

Where'er  his  footstep  leads. 

The  thorns  of  life  are  wisely  strown 

Around  our  pathway  here ; 
They  turn  our  wayward  footsteps  oft, 

Or  check  our  wild  career. 
But  life  has  many  sunny  vales 

And  many  Eden  bowers; 
Then  let  us  ever  shun  its  thorns, 

And  only  seek  its  flowers. 

19 


266  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


STOOD  ALONE. 
A  tender  vine  in  early  spring 

Upreared  its  fragile  head, 
And  many  a  trembling  glance  it  threw 

Around  its  lonely  bed ; 
No  kindred  branch  its  tendrils  clasped 

In  answer  to  its  own; 
No  kind  support  was  near  at  hand, 

And  there  it  stood  alone. 

The  sunny  sky  in  clouds  was  drest, 

And  chilly  winds  came  by; 
Yet  vainly  did  it  ask  for  aid,— 

No  friendly  hand  was  nigh. 
And  colder  swept  the  gathering  breeze 

On  colder  pinions  borne, 
And  deeply  did  the  vinelet  sigh, 

That  thus  it  stood  alone. 

But  'twas  not  crushed,  that  tender  stock, 

And  strength  and  hope  returned, 
And,  bowing  meek,  it  treasured  well 

The  lesson  it  had  learned. 
And  when  the  morning  sun  came  back, 

Respleiidently  it  shone, 
And  deeper  beauty  clothed  the  flower 

That  thus  had  stood  alone. 

And  day  by  day  it  taller  grew, 

Arresting  many  an  eye, 
As  thus  it  flung  its  tendrils  forth 

And  raised  its  head  on  high : 
Now  many  a  hand  extended  was, 

With  kindest  word  and  tone, 
But  turning  from  each  flatt'rer  there, 

It  proudly  stood  alone. 


This  humorous  poet  Avas  born  in  Portland,  Nov.  5, 1823,  and  died  in  Pennsylvania  some 
thirtv  vears  ago.  He  was  the  son  of  John  Dela,  ami  was  at  one  time  engaged  in  the 
practice  of  law  in  his  native  city.  Mr  Dela  secured  a  house  and  lot  in  Boston,  for  fur 
nishing  the  prize  conundrum  published  in  the  old  Boston  Museum. 


LAW  VS.  SAW. 

Sitting  in  his  office  was  a  lawyer- 
Standing  in  the  street  a  sawyer; 


LEWIS  DEL  A.  207 


On  the  lawyer's  anxious  face 
You  could  read  a  knotty  case, 

Needing  law; 

While  the  sawyer,  gaunt  and  grim, 
On  a  rough  and  knotty  limb 

Ran  his  saw. 

Now  the  saw-horse  seemed  to  me 
Like  a  double  X  in  fee, 

And  the  saw, 

Whichever  way  'twas  thrust, 
Must  be  followed  by  the  dust, 

Like  the  law. 

And  the  law  upon  the  track, 
Like  the  client  on  the  rack, 

Played  its  part; 
As  the  tempered  teeth  of  steel 
Made  a  wound  that  would  not  heal 

Through  the  heart. 

And  each  severed  stick  that  fell, 
In  its  falling  seemed  to  tell, 

All  too  plain, 
Of  the  many  severed  ties 
That  in  lawsuits  will  arise, 

Bringing  pain. 

Then  methought  the  sturdy  paw, 
That  was  using  axe  and  saw 

On  the  wood, 

Had  a  yielding  mine  of  wealth 
With  his  honest  toil  and  health, 

Doing  good. 

If  the  chips  that  strewed  the  ground, 
By  some  stricken  widow  found 

In  her  need, 

Should  by  light  and  warmth  impart 
Blessings  to  her  aged  heart — 

Happy  deed! 

This  conclusion  then  I  draw, 
That  no  exercise  of  jaw, 
Twisting  India-rubber  law, 

Is  as  good 
As  the  exercise  of  paw, 

Sawing  wood. 


268  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Rev.  H.  C.  Leonard  was  born  of  old  Puritan  stock  in  Haverhill,  Mass.,  about  1820,  and 
was  educated  for  the  ministry  of  the  Universalist  Church.  He  settled  in  Thomaston,  in 
this  State,  in  1842,  and  remained  there  nearly  live  years,  w  here  he  enjoyed-  as  he  did  aft 
erwards  wherever  he  lived— the  friendship  and  respect  of  the  most  cultivated  and  worthy 
of  all  denominations.  In  the  best  days  of  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine  and  of  Dr.  Bai 
ley's  National  Era,  Mr.  Leonard  contributed  to  these  publications  some  of  their  finest 
poetry.  A  poem  to  the  latter,  entitled  "  Lake  Chemo,"  was  thought  by  the  editor  to  be 
not  unworthy  of  Wordsworth.  Mr  Leonard  was  afterward  settled  at  Orono,  "Water- 
ville,  and  Deering.  "While  at  the  latter  place  he  acted,  for  a  part  of  the  time,  as  Profes 
sor  of  English  Literature  in  Westbrook  Seminary.  Early  in  the  Civil  "War  he  "was 
appointed  Chaplain  of  the  3d  Regiment  Maine  Volunteers,  and,  later,  upon  an  earnest 
request  of  Col.  Chaplin,  was  transferred  by  the  Secretary  of  "War  to  the  Chaplaincy  of 
the  1st  Maine  Regiment  of  Heavy  Artillery.  During  the  proprietorship  of  Mr.  Homan, 
of  Augusta,  of  the  Gospel  Banner,  Mr.  Leonard  was  the  editor  of  that  paper.  He  died 
at  Pigeon  Cove,  (Rockport,)  Mass.,  about  March  4,  1880. 


THE  OLD  CHIEFS. 

We  sing  the  chiefs  of  auld  lang  syne : 

"Madockawando  grave — 
The  Tarratine  in  Philip's  time; 

Megone,  the  fiend  and  knave; 
Wenamuett  with  kingly  face ; — 

All  braves  who  bent  the  bow 
In  autumn's  hunt  or  winter's  chase; 

But  most,  great  Orono. 

Madockawando's  royal  hand, 

In  nature's  temple  green, 
His  squaw-child  gave  in  marriage  band 

To  lone  and  proud  Castine. 
But  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 

Where  gleams  Penobscot's  flow, 
Best  praised  the  white-born  chief  shall  be, 

The  blue-eyed  Orono. 

In  modern  days  of  Atteon, 

Or  Neptune's  later  reign, 
No  tales  are  told  of  brave  deeds  done, 

Or  sung  in  noble  strain. 
Our  thoughts  are  turned  to  other  days, 

The  days  of  strife  and  woe, 
Relieved  by  calm,  pacific  ways, 

Of  pale-faced  Orono. 

We  sing  the  chief,  the  grand  old  chief, 

The  chief  of  auld  lang  syne, 
Whose  years  of  rule  on  memory's  leaf 

Are  years  of  bloodless  line. 


M.  S.  REED. 


We  sing  the  chief,  the  grand  old  chief, 

The  chief  of  long  ago, 
The  corn  still  sound  in  memory's  sheaf,- 

The  high-browed  Orono. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Bells,  ring  out  with  cheerful  might; 

Tapers,  burn  with  brilliant  flame; 
Organs,  play  glad  hymns  to-night; 

Voices,  chant  with  loud  acclaim. 

Hands,  adorn  the  sacred  wall, 

Twine  the  wreath  and  braid  the  vine 

And  upraise  the  fir-tree  tall; 
Minstrels,  sing  the  glowing  line. 

For  the  blessed  eve  has  come, 
Starlit,  bright  as  none  before; 

Magi  seek  the  Saviour's  home; 
Shepherds  find  His  humble  door. 

With  your  outward  rites  and  gifts, 
Let  the  heart  to  Christ  be  given; 

For  the  heart  His  power  uplifts, 
Leading  it  to  truth  and  heaven. 

Offering  from  hand  or  lip, 

Like  the  ointment  Mary  poured, 

Meaneth  inward  fellowship 

With  the  Saviour,  Christ  the  Lord. 


This  lady  was  born  at  Lewiston  Falls,  now  Auburn,  Me.,  about  1820,  and  began  to 
write  for  the  press  at  an  early  age.  A  volume  of  her  poems,  entitled  "  The  Wild  Flow 
er,"  was  printed  at  Portland,  by  S.  H  Colesworthy,  in  1848.  Mrs.  Read,  some  time  since 


removed  to  Chelsea.  Mass. 


SONG  OF  A  BLIND  GIRL. 

They  tell  me  earth  is  beautiful.     I  know  it  must  be  true, 
If  stirs  do  brilliant  shine  through  skies  of  an  ethereal  blue; 
Green  fields,  green  trees,  and  fragrant  flowers  of  every  form  and  hue, 
They  say,  are  scattered  o'er  the  earth,  and  form  a  glorious  view. 


270  THE  POETS  OF  MA INE. 

I  hear  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and  smell  the  dainty  flowers, 
And  breezes  soft  come  wafting  by,  amid  spring's  pleasant  bowers; 
A  thousand  sounds  I  daily  hear,  with  sweetest  music  fraught, 
And  every  sound  creates  in  me  some  pleasant,  blissful  thought. 

I  know  earth  must  be  beautiful,  though  I  may  never  see 
Her  beauties;  yet  I  cannot  mourn,  for  thoughts  are  given  me, 
That,  when  mortality  is  o'er,  my  spirit  then  will  rise 
To  that  eternal,  happy  shore,  to  see  above  the  skies. 


A  DONATION  GATHERING. 

A  happy  throng  unite,  on  this  auspicious  night, 

The  home  to  cheer, 

Of  him  who  doth  impart  food  to  the  hungry  heart, 
Who  heals,  with  friendship's  art, 

Our  sorrows  here. 

Let  joy  each  bosom  swell,  on  this  our  festival, 

May  no  regret 

Within  our  hearts  be  found,  while  we  this  board  surround; 
May  none  another  wound, 

But  feuds  forget. 

May  blessings  from  above  descend  on  him  we  love, 

With  hearts  sincere ; 

O  may  he  never  know  one  dark,  corrosive  woe, 
May  comfort  to  him  flow, 

Like  fountains  clear. 

God  bless  his  gentle  wife,  who,  through  this  chequered  life,. 

His  home  will  bless; 

O  guard  that  infant,  too,  and  in  its  pathway  strew 
Bright  flowers,  fresh  with  the  dew 

Of  happiness. 

May  friendship's  golden  chain  unbroken  here  remain, 

Among  our  band; 

And  may  we  ever  strive  in  harmony  to  live, 
Till  we  at  length  arrive 

In  that  bright  land. 


GEORGE  FREDERIC  MAGOUN.  271 


Rev  G.  F  Magoun  was  born  in  Bath,  March,  1821.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in 
the  class  of  1841,  and,  after  taking  a  course  of  theological  study,  became  resident  licen 
tiate  at  Amlover.  Mass.,  spending  two  years  of  the  time  in  teaching  at  Galena,  111  ,  and 
Piatteville  Wis.  He  began  his  ministry  in  the  service  of  the  Home  Missionary  Soci 
ety  at  Shul'lsburg  Wis  ,  was  afterwards  pastor  of  a  church  in  Galena,  111  ,  in  Davenport, 
la.  and  in  Lyons,  la.,  from  18CO  to  1864  Having  been  elected  President  of  Iowa  College 
and  Professo'r  of  Moral  and  Mental  Science,  he  entered  on  the  duties  of  that  office  in 
18C>6  and  resigned  the  position  in  1887.  In  1867  he  received  the  degree  of  D.  D  from 
Amherst  College  Amidst  his  manifold  labors,  l)r  Magoun  has  found  time  to  frequently 
contribute  to  the  prominent  reviews  and  periodicals  at  home,  and  also  to  the  London 
press,  besides  sermons,  addresses  and  lectures. 


GATHERING  OF  THE  COVENANTERS. 

No  proud  cathedral  bell,  the  prayer-call  bearing, 

Swung  solemnly  within  its  lofty  tower; 
All  sights  and  sounds,  and  their  true  hearts  unerring 
Proclaimed  the  hour. 

The  sunset-wane  of  day's  resplendent  glory 

Wrote  on  the  clouds  in  roseate  letters  there, 
Like  some  fine  limner  famed  in  ancient  story, 

' '  To  prayer !    To  prayer !' ' 

The  breeze  that  waved  the  meek,  dew-dripping  flowers, 

And  breathed  inspiring  fragrance  on  the  air, 
A  murmur  sent  through  all  their  blossomy  bowers, 
' '  To  prayer !    To  prayer !' ' 

Not  mid  the  pomp  of  serried  arch  and  column 

They  led  their  meek  and  reverent  array; 
Where  all  was  wild,  yet  Sabbath-like  and  solemn, 
They  turned  to  pray. 

Wild,  and  yet  Sabbath-like !    Huge  rocky  masses 
Were  piled  that  yawning  cavern-temple  round, 
Where  the  fierce  earthquake,  in  its  rifting  passes, 
A  home  had  found ! 

The  patriarch  came,  his  long  white  locks  revealing 

Time's  sway  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear, 
And  the  wee  infant  tottered  from  his  dwelling 
Of  scarce  a  year. 

The  mother  came.     Her  woman's  heart  will  falter 

As  priestly  hands  her  baptized  infant  lift, 
And  still  the  white-robed  maidens  at  the  altar 
Blush  at  the  gift! 


272  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

*      *      *      Stay !— A  swift  banner-plaid  went  flashing 

High  o'er  the  rocky  verge  with  sudden  gleam, 
And  sullenly  a  heavy  stone  fell  plashing 
Upon  the  stream ! 

Up,  worshippers !  unto  your  eyrie  dwelling, 
If  ye  would  never  death  of  torture  know! 
Like  a  wild  torrent  from  the  mountains  swelling, 
Burst  the  red  foe ! 

And  lo !  while  fiery  curse  and  imprecation 

Pour  in  hot  volleys  on  the  praise-stirred  air, 
The  mountain-flood,— swift  herald  of  salvation, — 
Itself  is  there! 

Their  foam-flecked  crests  o'er  hill  and  valley  flinging, 

On !  on !  the  raving,  thundering  waters  pour ! 
On  that  wild  sea  no  wave-washed  corse  is  swinging, — 
^  One  y ell !— ' t  was  o'er! 

While  high  above,  unheard  amid  the  thunder, 
The  Covenanters  praise  that  vengeful  God, 
Who  flung  the  mighty  from  his  prey  asunder 
On  that  dark  flood ! 

That  spirit  reigneth  still!     So,  Christian,  waging 

A  terrible  war  along  life's  corse-strewn  road, 
Fear  not!     One  power  can  calm  thy  foe's  fierce  raging,- 
O  trust  in  God ! 


reck 


Edward  Breck  Robinson  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass.,  May  29,  1821.  At  the  age  of 
16.  he  went  to  Boston  and  entered  the  piano  manufactory  of  L.  Gilbert  as  an  apprentice. 
lie  at  the  same  time  commenced  his  musical  studies  under  Henry  Greatorex,  the  dis 
tinguished  musician  and  composer.  When  21  years  of  age  he  adopted  piano-teaching  as 
a  profession,  and  came  to  Portland  in  1847  in  that  capacity.  He  officiated  as  organist  at 
the  First  Parish  Church  in  1851,  when  he  resigned  to  travel  in  Europe.  Keturning,  he 
commenced  manufacturing  pianos  in  this  city  under  the  firm  name  of  Andrews  &  Kob- 
inson,  and  has  continued  dealing  in  the  instruments  until  the  present  time. 


BIRD  LOVE. 

The  songsters  of  the  forest  know 

When  love- time  comes  in  early  spring; 

And,  long  before  the  melting  snow, 
Assemble  at  the  gathering 


EDWARD  BRECK  ROBINSON.  273 


To  woo  the  mate  that  love  inspires, 
And  win  her  little  heart  of  joy; 

And  all  the  art  that  love  requires 
With  fervent  ardor  they  employ. 

Why  sings  each  bird  its  sweetest  notes, 
As  if  alone  all  love  were  his  ? 

There  flies  the  mate,  011  her  he  dotes, 
And  she  knows  what  the  answer  is. 

In  yonder  densely  shaded  wood, 
He  follows  to  some  leafy  spray; 

And  in  the  charm  of  solitude 
Caresses  with  his  tuneful  lay. 

Repeating  oft  a  simple  strain, 
He  softly  warbles  forth  its  tone 

Until  she  turns  and  looks  again; 
And  then  his  pleading  note  is  done. 

O  love,  with  subtle  power  divine — 
And  who  would  not  thy  servant  be?— 

So  teach  me  that  the  work  be  mine 
To  touch  the  secret  spring  for  thee. 


SONG  TO  THE  ROSES. 

I'll  carol  to  the  roses,  love, 

As  we  go  wandering  by; 
I'll  sing  and  tell  my  thoughts  of  thee, 

But  with  a  trembling  sigh. 

To  one  fair  rose  the  bee  now  flies, 

And  finds  its  honey  there ; 
What  wonder  then  if  I  now  seek 

Thy  ruddy  lips  so  fair. 

Come  hither,  that  the  passing  breeze 
Cool  not  thy  blushing  cheek; 

Draw  nearer,  that  my  tempted  lips 
To  thee  may  softly  speak. 

For  I  sing  to  the  roses,  love, 

And  tell  them  all  of  thee ; 
That  thou  the  sweet  and  fair  rose  art, 

And  I  the  honey  bee. 


274  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

POLICY. 

One  cannot  force  a  horse  to  drink ; 

One  cannot  force  a  fool  to  think ; 
And  whip  the  horse  and  thump  the  fool, 

Yet  they  are  stubborn  as  a  mule ! 

But  give  the  horse  a  little  salt, 
And  tell  the  fool  he  has  no  fault, 

Then  they  will  yield  to  selfishness, 

And  drink  some,  think  some,  more  or  less. 


Mrs.  Lucy  Ann  Quinby  was  the  daughter  of  Robert  E.  Corliss,  and  was  born  May  12. 
1821,  in  North  Yarmouth,  Me.  She  married  Rev.  Geo.  W.  Quinhy,  D.  I).,  in  1837  She 
died  in  Middletown,  Ct.,  Feb.  23,  I860.  "  She  was  the  faithful  wife,  the  affectionate  mother, 
the  tender  daughter,  the  true  friend,  and  the  sincere  Christian.  To  the  poor  she  was  a 
benefactor,  to  the  afflicted  a  comforter,  and  to  the  rich  an  ornament  and  example.''  Mrs. 
Quinby,  though  her  domestic  duties  were  manifold,  contributed  oft^n  for  religious  asso 
ciations  and  public  occasions,  and  several  of  her  pieces,  dedicated  to  special  friends  or  to 
help  some  good  cause,  are  still  treasured.  She  was  the  mother  of  nine  children,  one  of 
whom  is  the  wife  of  Mr.  Hollis  B.  Hill,  of  Portland. 


CONVENTION  HYMN. 

FOR   THE  STATE  CONVENTION  OF   UNIVERSALISTS  AT   BRIDGEPORT,  CONN., 
AUG.    26TII   AND   27TH,    1846. 

Great  God !  thy  children  gathered  now 

Within  this  place  of  prayer,  so  dear, 
Would  at  thy  feet  in  rev'rence  bow, 

And  humbly  ask  Thy  presence  here. 

From  various  parts  we  come  to  bring 

The  tidings  of  Thy  gospel's  spread; 
Thy  messengers,  we  meet  to  sing 

The  boundless  praise  of  Christ,  our  Head. 

Though  strangers  now,  we  joyful  come, 

Our  Father  to  adore  in  love; 
We  have  one  faith,  one  hope,  one  home, 

"Not  made  with  hands,"  in  heaven  above. 

While  here,  new  zeal  may  we  obtain; 

O  with  thy  love  our  hearts  imbue ; 
Here  make  "Thy  doctrine  drop  like  rain," 

Thy  truth  distil  like  early  dew. 


LUCY  ANN  q UINB F.  275 

Here,  from  the  altar  of  each  heart, 

Let  fervent  prayer  to  Thee  ascend; 
Father,  Thy  grace  to  us  impart, 

Thy  blessing  on  Thy  children  send. 

And  when,  with  multitudes  above, 

Thy  ransomed  sweep  the  trembling  lyre, 
Thy  power,  goodness,  truth  and  love, 

Each  seraph's  song  with  joy  shall  fire. 


TO    GRANDFATHER    ON    HIS    EIGHTY-SEVENTH    BIRTHDAY, 
FEBRUARY  NINTH,  1850. 

Eighty  and  seven  long  years  have  gone 
Since  thou  the  light  first  looked  upon, 
And  time's  rude  hand  has  on  thy  face 
Left  many  a  deep  and  furrowed  trace. 

Thy  once  firm  step  is  tottering  now, 
And  white  the  locks  upon  thy  brow; 
Dimmed  is  the  lustre  of  thine  eye, — 
Thou'rt  ripened  for  thy  home  on  high. 

Yes,  Grandsire,  thou  art  wrinkled,  old, 
All  but  thy  heart,  that  is  not  cold ; 
For  neither  age  nor  time  can  trace 
Deep  wrinkles  there,  as  on  thy  face. 

How  I,  in  childhood,  loved  to  see 
Thy  face  and  climb  upon  thy  knee ; 
Oft  while  I  sat  in  gladness  there, 
My  hand  played  with  thy  hoary  hair. 

May  God  bless  her,  who  by  thy  side 
Has  walked  at  noon  and  eventide, 
Whose  faithful  love  so  many  years 
Has  shared  thy  joys,  thy  hopes,  and  fears. 

God  of  our  Fathers!  may  thy  care 
Keep  and  sustain  this  aged  pair, 
Receive  them  when  with  life  they're  done, 
Their  "battle  fought,"  the  "victory  won." 


AN  OLD  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN. 

I'll  sing  you  a  good  old  song,  that  was  made  when  men  were  great, 
Of  a  fine  old  English  Gentleman,  who  had  an  old  estate, 
And  who  kept  up  his  fine  mansion  at  a  bountiful  old  rate ; 
With  a  good  big  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  beside  his  gate, 
Like  a  fine  old  English  gentlemin,  all  of  the  olden  time. 


276  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

His  hall  so  old  was  hung  about  with  pikes  and  guns  and  bows, 

And  swords  and  good  old  bucklers  which  had  stood  some  tough  old  blows ; 

'Twas  there  "His  Worship"  sat  in  state,  in  doublet  and  trunk-hose, 

And  quaffed  his  cup  of  good  old  sack,  to  comfort  his  old  nose, 

Like  a  fine  old  English  gentleman,  one  of  the  olden  time. 

His  custom  was,  when  Christmas  came,  to  bid  his  friends  repair 
To  his  old  hall,  where  feast  and  ball  for  them  he  did  prepare; 
And  though  the  rich  he  entertained,  he  ne'er  forgot  the  poor, 
Nor  was  the  houseless  wanderer  e'er  driven  from  the  door 
Of  this  fine  old  English  gentleman,  one  of  the  olden  time. 

Yet  all,  at  length,  must  bend  to  fate !  so,  like  the  ebbing  tide, 
Declining  gently  to  the  last,  this  fine  old  man,  he  died; 
The  widow  and  the  orphan's  tears  bedewed  his  cold  grave's  side, — 
And  where's  the  scutcheon  that  can  show  so  much  of  worth  and  pride 
Of  a  fine  old  English  gentleman,  one  of  the  olden  time. 

But  times  and  seasons  though  they  change,  and  customs  pass  away, 
Yet  English  hands  and  English  hearts  will  prove  old  England's  sway; 
And  though  our  coffers  mayn't  be  filled  as  they  were  wont  of  yore, 
We  still  have  hands  to  fight,  if  need,  and  hearts  to  help  the  poor, 
Like  the  good  old  English  gentleman,  one  of  the  olden  time. 


Miss  Kemick  has  always  resided  in  the  quiet  country  town  of  Kittery,  in  the  house  to 
which  her  mother  came  on  her  marriage.  Her  father  held  an  office  in  the  Navy-yard  at 
this  place  the  larger  part  of  his  life,  going  out  once  with  his  party  which  was  then  called 
the  Whig  administration,  being  reinstated  on  their  return  to  power.  He  was  a  man  of 
sound  judgment  and  unquestioned  integrity.  Martha  inherited  from  her  mother  a  love 
of  history  and  of  literature.  She  was  a  diligent  worker  in  her  household,  but  she  always 
found  time  for  reading,  and  our  author  remembers  of  her  telling  of  one  part  of  her  life, 
when,  surrounded  by  family  cares,  she  found  no  leisure  by  day,  the  late  hours  of  the  eve 
ning  were  spent  in  this  way.  Martha's  school  life  was  one  of  absorbing  study;  a  small 
part  of  it  was  passed  at  Augusta.  Me.,  and  at  a  Baptist  Seminary  in  Charlestown,  Mass., 
but  she  learned  nearly  as  well  by  studying  her  books  at  home  in  the  intervals  to  school 
terms.  She  was  satisfied  only  when  she  could  repeat  the  contents  of  each  from  the 
beginning  to  the  close  without  questions.  Overwork  of  mind  prepared  the  way  for  sick 
ness,  and  from  a  summer  of  fever  about  that  time  she  has  never  been  restored  to  perma 
nent  health.  .She  has  always  thought  her  gifts  lay  more  in  prose  than  poetry.  She  had 
written  many  stories  which  had  been  well  received  in  the  publications  to  which  they 
were  sent,  but  for  a  long  period  could  only  cultivate  her  gift  for  verse,  and  her  poems 
appeared  every  week  in  two  or  three  Boston  papers.  When  better  health  came,  three 
books  were  written  which  found  their  way  to  the  public,  "  Agnes  Stanhope,"  "  Millicent 
Halford"  and  "  liichard  Ireton,"  beside  several  serials,  and  some  MSS.,  which  have  not 
yet  been  sent  to  a  publisher.  Her  published  poems  would  fill  three  large  volumes  if  col 
lected. 


PEPPERELL'S  TOMB. 

In  the  southern  section  of  this  town  is  another  village,  commanding  a  distant  view  of 
the  blue  ocean.  Here  are  the  remains  of  the  once  elegant  mansion  of  Sir  William  Pep- 
perell,  the  only  colonist  knighted  by  the  mother  country.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
he  won  this  distinction  by  his  capture  of  Louisburg  from  the  French,  at  the  head  of  New 
England  troops.  This  is  commemorative  of  a  visit  to  his  tomb. 


MARTHA  RE  MICK.  277 


In  a  lone,  deserted  field, 

Where  the  bluest  violets  bloom, 
Where  the  May  winds  sweep  the  valleys, 

Stands  a  stately  marble  tomb : . 
Not  a  rose,  or  vine,  or  flower, 

Clings  around  it;  love's  sweet  spell 
Long  has  vanished  from  its  portals ; 

Of  its  fame  alone  we  tell. 

Many  years  have  come  and  vanished 

Since  this  silent  sleeper  led 
To  the  storming  of  a  fortress, 

Ranks  of  men  now  lying  dead. 
When  New  England  won  a  victory! 

And  this  gray  old  tombstone's  name 
High  upon  the  scroll  of  honor 

Was  the  first  in  song  and  fame ! 

Full  a  hundred  years  have  vanished 

Since  that  proud  and  happy  day, 
When  his  ships,  all  richly  laden, 

Gathered  in  this  fair,  blue  bay; 
When  these  green  fields  all  around  us 

With  his  nodding  harvests  shone — 
Wealth  and  pride  and  state  and  honor, 

To  this  tomb  they  all  have  flown. 

Yonder  in  his  stately  mansion, 

Once  the  halls  were  all  aglow 
With  the  music  and  rejoicings 

Of  the  days  of  long  ago. 
Now  his  portrait  hangs  forgotten 

On  the  ancient,  time-worn  wall, 
And  the  strangers'  faces  gather 

In  his  proud  ancestral  hall. 

In  this  tomb  he  lies  forgotten; 

But  the  ancient  tales  will  tell 
Of  the  master  who  was  honored, 

And  the  faithful  friend  as  well. 
Better  than  the  fame  which  crowned;him, 

Better  than  his  wealth's  great  store, 
Are  these  records  which  present  him 

True  and  just  forevermore. 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 
His  voice  rang  out  upon  your  streets, 

O  cold,  proud  city !  in  the  still  dark  night, 


278  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

He  was  the  prophet  who  foresaw  the  day, 
The  slow,  sure  dawning  of  a  far-off  light. 

Hated  and  scorned,  he  wrought  as  best  he  knew, 
To  what  he  believed  his  lips  were  never  dumb; 

It  was  a  happy  ending  to  his  toils 
To  see  his  promised  future  safely  come. 

Silent  and  reverent,  through  the  long,  dark  streets 

Throngs  wait  the  coming  of  his  sable  bier, 
As  a  good  warrior  who  has  fought  his  right, 

Who  slumbers  in  the  peaceful  stillness  here; 
Round  him  the  children  of  a  dusky  race 

Marshal  a  guard  for  their  long  faithful  friend, 
Who,  when  their  sky  had  not  a  line  of  light; 

Wrought  for  them  to  the  coming  of  the  end. 

Scorned  at  his  morning,  hated  at  his  noon, 

Into  his  evening  came  the  sunset  light; 
They  knew  him  who  had  breathed  but  scorn  and  hate 

Before  he  passed  away  into  the  night. 
Lo,  the  proud  city  brings  her  funeral  wreaths, 

Her  long  processions  where  he  lies  in  sleep, 
Where  hundred  faces  from  the  walls  look  down, — 

What  he  has  sown  at  last  his  fame  shall  reap. 


GAMBETTA. 

"  A  lover  of  his  country,"  write  it  here 
Above  the  still  face  lying  on  the  bier, 
He  was  her  saviour  when  the  blood-red  hand 
Of  war  spread  over  all  the  wide  fair  land, 
Wisely  he  counseled  all  that  man  could  do; 
In  her  dark  hours  he  was  wise  and  true. 

What  were  his  faults  shown  in  the  light  of  day? 

In  that  dark  chamber  with  him  let  them  lay, — 

Bring  roses,  violets  and  immortelles  red, 

To  glorify  with  bloom  his  last  low  bed, 

To  breathe  of  a  new  life  if  priest  and  prayer, 

Are  banished  from  the  solemn  service  there. 

The  thronging  thousands  came  around  his  bier; 

He  who  is  mourned  for  is  no  longer  here, 

In  what  new  worlds  our  eyes  are  dim  to  trace 

Shall  we  behold  the  glory  of  his  face, 

The  spirit's  glory  who  has  put  away 

The  fading  vestments  and  the  form  of  clay? 


MARTHA  EEMICK.  279 


Noble  his  deeds,  detractions,  liate  and  wrong, 
All  these  fall  earthward,  to  the  earth  belong; 
Fame's  fairest  garland  on  his  grave  will  bloom, 
On  History's  fairest  page  his  name  find  room; 
'Tis  time  that  tries  us;  let  these  letters  stand, 
"  He  was  the  lover  of  his  father-land." 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST! 

"  A  child  is  lost!"  the  crier  calls, 

Down  a  long  street  the  interest  grew, 
The  anguish  of  one  mother's  heart, 

The  waiting,  startled  mothers  knew; 
Some  blue-eyed  darling  whose  short  steps 

Have  wandered  from  the  household  door,- 
Before  the  night-fall  she  shall  come 

To  wander  from  it  nevermore. 

There  will  be  tears  upon  her  face, 

The  tangled  curls  with  dust  will  shine, 
The  poor  hot  cheeks  will  flush  and  glow, 

As  with  a  draught  of  ruby  wine. 
But  robed,  when  folded  close  and  safe 

To  hearts  that  love  her,  will  it  be; 
Only  the  sheltering  walls  of  home 

And  well-known  faces  will  she  see. 

Out  in  the  street  the  other  day, 

Where  snow-flakes  all  the  pathway  piled, 
I  saw  a  woman  whose  dark  face 

Brought  up  the  memory  of  this  child. 
A  wanderer  from  some  happy  home, 

For  whom  no  crier's  voice  may  call; 
But  through  the  stillness  and  the  gloom 

I  know  God  watches  over  all. 


A  BROKEN  HOUSEHOLD. 

Five  little  girls!  how  fast  they  grew! 

Through  the  chinks  in  the  roof  the  stars  shone  through, 
But,  nestled  together  with  wrappings  warm, 

They  heeded  neither  the  wind  nor  the  storm; 
Summer  and  winter  with  work  and  play 

They  filled  up  merrily  every  day, 
And  learned  their  tasks  at  the  village  school, 

Where  they  were  gentle  and  easy  to  rule. 


THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


Many  a  year  has  glided  away, 

The  little  old  cabin  has  gone  to  decay; 
A  fine  stately  building  fills  yonder  its  place, 

Of  the  green  swarded  bank  there  is  left  not  a  trace; 
But  a  gray-headed  man  trudges  blithely  along, 

He  who  once  was  so  rugged  and  stalwart  and  strong, 
Or  sits  in  his  door  but  a  few  rods  away 

In  the  rest  and  calm  of  a  summer  day. 

The  children  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 

Not  one  is  left  by  the  old  hearthside, — 
All  but  the  child  who  went  early  to  rest, 

With  the  green  sods  laid  on  her  lifeless  breast, 
To  share  with  the  mother  the  blessed  home 

Leaving  the  father  weary  and  lone, 
With  his  faithful  dog  in  the  twilight  gray 

Which  shuts  in  his  busy  and  useful  day. 

Five  little  ones  in  the  long  ago ! 

How  the  years  will  vanish,  they  come  and  go! 
The  pine  wood  stands,  and  the  river  shines 

Under  the  thickets  of  rustling  vines; 
But  they  come  not  back  who  will  come  no  more 

To  him  who  sits  in  the  sun  at  his  door, 
Waiting  and  dreaming,  while  far  away 

The  air  is  astir  with  the  childrens'  play. 


AN"  INCIDENT  OF  A  HOSPITAL. 

From  the  river-side  they  bore  her, 

Where  the  Thames'  clear  waters  flow, 
To  the  chamber  where  they  laid  her, 

On  a  pallet  soft  and  low. 
Gentle  voices  breathed  around  her, 

Where  a  few  white  cots  were  spread ; 
To  and  thither  from  her  pillow, 

Watchers  went  with  noiseless  tread. 

Full  of  shame  and  grief  and  sorrow, 

Her  short  life  behind  her  lay; 
Only  eighteen  little  summers, 

In  the  stillness  stretched  away 
To  the  deep  and  slimy  river, 

Where  her  lost  and  trembling  feet 
Had  been  stayed  one  little  hour, 

In  this  chamber  cool  and  sweet. 


CHARLES  PHELPS  ROB  KRIS.  2«1 


Full  of  human  love  and  pity, 

All  the  long  nights  came  and  went, 
And  a  holy  dream  of  heaven 

To  the  fainting  heart  was  sent; 
Full  of  hope  and  peace  and  patience, 

In  the  pain  that  pressed  her  still, 
She  looked  upward  with  rejoicing, 

To  the  doing  of  His  will. 

In  the  stillness  of  one  night-time, 

They  who  slept  around  her  bed 
Saw  the  glory  of  His  presence 

In  her  wondrous  beauty  shed; 
As  with  radiant  face  uplifted 

To  some  vision  on  the  wall, 
Held  beyond  their  touch  or  seeing, 

She  went  from  them  at  His  call. 

Thus  they  laid  her  in  her  slumbers, 

With  that  look  upon  her  face, 
In  the  low  and  lonely  chamber, 

Where  the  poor  must  have  a  place ; 
But  they  told  the  story  over, 

Through  the  ward  and  world  it  flew,- 
It  was  a  strange,  sad  story, 

But  every  word  is  true. 


Charles  jjltelpx  jjoberts. 

Chas.  P.  Roberts  is  a  native  of  Bangor,  where  he  was  born  Feb.  14,  1822.  He  graduated 
from  Bowdoin  College  in  the  class  of  1845,  and  after  this  studied  law  for  some  time  in 
the  office  of  James  S.  Rowe,  Esq.  ]VIr.  Roberts  was  admitted  to  practice  in  1847,  but 
becoming  connected  with  the  editorial  department  of  the  l<at>gor  Laily  Aienwy,  he 
relinquished  it,  and  for  four  years  devoted  his  lime  and  talent  to  editorial  matters,  tater, 
he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  hangor  J.>oily  Jovmal,  holding  that  position  twelve 
years,  and  was  superintendent  of  the  public  schools  of  that  city  lor  the  same  length  of 
time.  He  has  also  been  a  member  of  the  City  Council.  In  1879,  or  thereabouts,  he 
removed  to  Boston,  and  became  connected  with  the  public  press.  His  wife  is  a  native  of 
Winterport. 


THE  SLEEP  OF  NATURE. 
The  wind  is  loud,  and  a  frosty  shroud 

Wraps  Nature  in  its  fold, 
The  Frost  King's  hands,  as  with  iron  bands, 

Have  set  and  sealed  their  hold. 

How  swift  and  fleet  were  the  Day-god's  feet, 

That  danced  along  the  plain ! 
And  sudden  and  brief  the  fall  of  the  leaf 

Told  winter  come  again ! 
20 


282  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

As  sweet  and  deep  as  a  maiden's  sleep, 

In  snow-white  vesture  laid, 
Looks  Nature  now,  with  her  pale  cold  brow, 

In  her  wintry  garb  arrayed. 

Yet  fair  as  the  flush  of  a  virgin's  blush, 
Shall  she  rise  from  sleep  and  dream, 

And  roseate  hues  with  the  glittering  dews 
Shall  weave  her  gorgeous  sheen. 

And  again  shall  sing  the  birds  in  the  spring, 

And  Nature's  heart  shall  glow; 
The  fruits  and  flowers,  in  the  genial  showers, 

Shall  blossom  sweet,  and  grow. 

On  hill-side  and  plain  shall  nod  the  ripe  grain, 

In  summer's  golden  sun, 
And  autumn  shall  cheer,  with  the  fruits  of  the  year, 

The  reapers'  work  well  done. 

Thus,  warm  or  a-cold,  she  waxeth  not  old, 

Since  the  sweet  morn  of  her  birth, 
When  the  glad  stars  sang  and  the  echoes  rang 

Through  all  the  heaven  and  earth. 


(jnach 


Enoch  Perley  Fessenden  was  born  in  Fryeburg,  June  20,  1822.  He  fitted  for  college  at 
the  Academy  there,  hoping  to  enter  Sophomore,  but,  upon  examination,  entered  the 
Juniors'  year  of  Bowdoin,  at  Brunswick.  He  ranked  higli,  being  tirst  in  his  class  as  a 
German  scholar,  and  in  mathematics.  He  was  elected  Class  Poet  for  the  Junior  year, 
and  delivered  a  poem  entitled  "Oblivion"  on  Class  day.  He  graduated  with  honor  in 
1844.  He  then  took  charge  of  a  seminary  in  Indiana,  but  afterward  studied  the  profes 
sion  of  medicine,  and  was  a  successful  practitioner  in  Bucksport,  Me.,  for  many  years. 
He  died  at  Augusta,  Feb.  23,  1883.  This  author  Avas  a  brother  of  General  Samuel  Fessen 
den,  and  uncle  of  William  Pitt  Fessenden,  also  uncle  to  Ellen  Fessenden  Lincoln,  a  con 
tributor  to  this  volume.  He  was  very  strong  in  his  loyalty  to  kin,  had  an  intense  sense 
of  the  humorous,  and  large  gift  at  mimicry,  and  is  said  to  have  written  good  verses  at 
nine  years  of  age. 

THE  SONG  OF  SLEEP. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  Sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 

O  how  sweet  when  day  is  o'er!  O  how  sweet  at  height  of  bliss 

Floating  from  the  quiet  shore  There  to  feel  the  dewy  kiss, 

'Neath  the  dreamy  sky  of  June  There  to  smoothly  glide  away 

To  the  water's  dying  tune,  Down  a  softening  moonlight  ray 

Sinking  with  the  sinking  moon,  Into  misty,  ghostly  day, 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep.  Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 


ENOCH  PERLEY  FESSENDEN. 


Sleep,  sleep,  sleep.  Sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 

O  how  sweet  in  shades  of  woe,  O  how  sweet  onmother's  breast 

Then  to  feel  the  tidal  flow  There  so  soft  to  lie  at  rest, 

Of  the  softest  wavy  light  Gazing  in  those  quiet  eyes 

Gently,  slowly  lift  the  night  Till  their  lights  in  shadows  lie ; 

Resting  on  the  weary  sight,  Murmuring  till  the  murmurs  die, 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep.          Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

WELCOME  OF  EARTH. 

O  welcome!  welcome  here! 

To  thy  home  beneath  the  bier, 
From  life's  dark  shores  of  pain  and  fear, 

Rest  sweetly  on  the  breast 

Of  the  one  who  loves  thee  best, 
Of  one  who  will  watch  o'er  thy  tranquil  rest, 

Till  thy  blue  and  gentle  eyes, 

Shall  open  on  the  skies 
Of  the  angels'  own  blest  Paradise. 

And  calmly  thou  shalt  stay 

And  gently  waste  away; 
There  is  no  pain  in  that  slow  decay, 

It  will  never  mar  thy  sleep, 

It  will  never  bid  thee  weep, 
While  thy  mother  above  thee  her  watch  shall  keep, 

Till  corruption's  blackened  sign, 

On  this  moveless  face  of  thine, 
But  makes  thee  nearer  to  me,  and  mine. 

When  decay  has  run  its  race, 

And  there  is  left  no  trace 
Of  thy  rounded  form  and  thy  smiling  face; 

When  the  dust  remains  alone, 

When  the  coffin  lid  is  gone, 
And  the  ashes  of  life  on  the  mold  are  strewn ; 

O  then  a  part  of  me, 

Weary  one,  thou  shalt  be 
Till  the  opening  morn  of  Eternity. 

Though  thine  earthly  friends  above 

May  forget  the  heart  of  love, 
That  'neath  the  turf  has  ceased  to  move, 

The  Earth  is  near  thee  yet; 

The  Earth  will  ne'er  forget, 
While  the  stars  of  Heaven  shall  rise  and  set, — 

Then  where  shall  peace  be  found 

Like  the  peace  that  reigns  around 
The  cold,  damp  clay  in  the  cold,  damp  ground  ? 


284  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


jjjillwm  Augustus  (§Qodwm. 

William  A.  Goodwin  was  born  in  Saco,  July  27,  1822.  He  graduated  from  Bowdoin  in 
the  class  of  1842,  and  was  first  engaged  in  teaching  in  Brunswick,  Eastville,  Va.,  and 
Saco,  which  employment  he  lollowed  for  two  jears.  He  then  entered  upon  the  study  of 
civil  engineering  in  the  field,  which  has  been  his  constant  occupation,  and  has  resided  in 
Portland.  Koxbury,  and  Newton,  Mass.  In  1870  he  returned  to  Portland,  where  he  still 
lives.  "  The  positions  he  has  held,"— we  quote  from  the  history  of  his  college,-  "  testify 
to  his  ability  and  the  repute  he  has  enjoyed."  He  was  assistant  engineer  on  the  Atlantic 
and  St.  Lawrence  Kailroad,  the  York  and  Cumberland,  etc.;  chief  engineer  on  the  Penob- 
scot;  on  surveys  of  the  European  and  North.  American  Kailroad  from  St.  John,  N.  B.,  to 
Calais,  Me.;  superintendent  of  construction  of  the  first  and  second  light-house  districts, 
coasts'of  Maine,  New  Hampshire,  and  Massachusetts.  In  1863  and  18C4  he  served  at  New 
Orleans,  and  on  the  Gulf  and  South  Atlantic  coast  under  special  orders,  on  light-house 
duty.  Since  1870  he  has  been  the  popular  city  engineer  of  Portland.  Mr.  Goodwin  has 
been  a  poetical  contributor  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other  publications  of  a  high 
order,  and  also  to  the  proceedings  of  the  American  Philological  Association.  He  has 
taken  no  pains  to  preserve  the  offspring  of  his  muse,  and  with  reluctance  allows  these 
specimens  to  appear  in  our  book. 

THE  TERROR. 

Non  eget  Mauris  jaculis  neque  arcu. 

Queen  of  the  surges,  sailing  forth  undaunted, 
Weathersome  laden,  stiff  though  but  in  ballast, 
Who  shall  withstand  thee,  terror  of  the  navies, 
Three-masted  schooner ! 

On  comes  the  war-ship,  ponderous,  majestic ; 
Power  intrinsic  this  to  choose  or  that  way. 
Ware  thee  now,  schooner !  trusting  but  to  breezes, 
Pitiful  schooner ! 

Wind  is  but  light,  and  scant  at  that,  and  baffling. 
Luff  ?  no,  she  cannot— keep  her  off  ?  she  will  not. 
Crashing  collision — slowly  sinks  the  war-ship; 
On  sails  the  schooner. 

Where  grew  the  oaks,  the  tamaracks  and  beeches 
Shaped  to  thy  timbers,  weighted  as  of  iron  ? 
Fitted  and  fastened,  built  with  skill  consummate. 
Hail  to  thee,  builder ! 

Find  thou,  O  builder!  always  in  the  forest 
That  breed  of  oaks  and  tender  them  securely. 
Set  in  each  bow  a  stem  of  such  like  timber, 
Oaken  as  iron. 

No  beak  of  trireme,  pointed,  massive,  brazen, 
Driven  resistless  by  the  broad-backed  rowers, 
Tore  in  the  hollow  ships  of  olden  story 
Side  rents  so  ghastly. 


WILLIAM  AUGUSTUS  GOODWIN.  285 

Ram  of  a  schooner !  thou  hast  changed  thy  gender. 
No  more  shall  she  be  said  of  a  three-master. 
He  is  henceforth  thy  proper  appellation, 
Masterful  schooner! 

Thy  function  now  conjunction,  though  disjunctive, 
First  of  the  list  we  dearly  learned  as  children; 
"But,  then,  though,  either,"  thus  was  its  beginning, 
Butt,  then,  O  schooner! 

Though,  if  thou  must  be  plunging  at  all  comers, 
Discriminate  more  wisely  than  thou  hast  done. 
Choose  if  thou  wilt  the  ordinary  war-ship, 
But  not  Cunarders. 

Now,  if  I  had  the  ear  of  Uncle  Samuel, 
This  would  I  plead :  "Why  bother  with  your  cruisers  ? 
Gather  from  Maine,  from  all  the  down-east  ship-yards, 
Three-masted  schooners." 


A  TOBACCONALIAN  ODE. 

CTPlant  divine ! 
Not  to  the  tuneful  Nine, 

Who  sit  where  purple  sunlight  longest  lingers, 
Twining  the  bay,  weaving  with  busy  fingers 
The  amaranth  eterne  and  sprays  of  vine, 
Do  I  appeal.     Ah,  worthier  brows  than  mine 
Shall  wear  those  wreaths !    But  thou,  O  potent  plant, 
Of  thy  broad  fronds  but  furnish  me  a  crown; 
Let  others  sing  the  yellow  corn,  the  vine, 
And  others  for  the  laurel-garland  pant, 
Content  with  my  rich  meed,  I'll  sit  me  down, 
Nor  ask  for  fame,  nor  heroes'  high  renown, 
Nor  wine. 
Ye  airy  sprites, 

Born  of  the  Morning's  womb,  sired  of  the  Sun, 
Who  cull  with  nice  acumen,  one  by  one, 
All  gentle  influences  from  the  air, 
And  from  within  the  earth  what  most  delights 
The  tender  roots  of  springing  plants,  whose  care 
Distils  from  gross  material  its  spirit 
To  paint  the  flower  and  give  the  fruit  its  merit, 
Apply  to  my  dull  sense  your  subtle  art! 
When  ye,  with  nicest,  finest  skill,  had  wrought 
This  chiefest  work,  the  choicest  blessings  brought 
20* 


THE  rOKTS  OP  MAINE. 


And  stored  them  at  its  roots,  prepared  each  part, 
M  itured  the  bud,  painted  t.he  dainty  bloom, 
Ye  stood  and  gazed  until  the  fruit  should  come.      •*• 
Ah,  foolish  elves! 

Lv>ok  ye  that  yon  frail  flower  should  be  sublimed 
T  >  fraic  C;>,n  H3ivsunte  with  all  your  power 
And  cunning  art  ?     Was  it  for  such  ye  climbed 
The  slanting  sunbeams,  coaxing  many  a  shower 
From  the  coy  clouds ?     Ye  did  exceed  yourselves; 
And  as  ye  stand  and  gaze,  lo,  instantly 
The  whole  etherealized  ye  see: 
From  topmost  golden  spray  to  lowest  root, 
The  whole  is  fruit. 
Well  have  ye  wrought, 
And  in  your  honor  now  shall  incense  rise. 
The  o  ikfii  chair,  the  cheerful  blaze,  invite 
Calm  meditation,  while  the  flickering  light 
Casts  strange,  fantastic  shadows  on  the  wall, 
Where  goodly  tomes,  with  ample  lading  fraught 
Of  gold,  of  wit  and  gems  of  fancy  rare, 
Poet  and  sage,  mute  witnesses  of  all, 
Smile  gently  on  me,  as  with  sober  care, 
I  reach  the  pipe  and  thoughtfully  prepare 
The  sacrifice. 
O  fragile  clay! 

Erstwhile  as  white  as  e'er  a  lily  of  old  Xile, 
But  now  imbrowned  and  ambered  o'er  and  through 
With  richest  tints  and  ever-deepening  hue. 
Q  lintessenoe  of  rire  essences  the  while 
Uphoarding,  as  thou  farest  day  by  day, 
Thou  minds t  me  of  a  geni  vl  face  I  knew. 
At  first  it  was  but  fair,  nought  but  a  face; 
But  as  I  read  and  learned  it,  wondrous  grace 
And  beauty  marvellous  did  grow,  and  grow, 
Till  every  hue  of  the  sweet  soul  did  show 
Most  beautiful  from  brow  and  lip  and  eye. 
And  thus.  O  clay, 

Child  of  the  sea-foam,  nursed  amid  the  spray, 
Thy  visage  changes,  ever  grows  more  fail- 
As  the  fine  spirit  works  expression  there ! 
Blest  be  the  tide  that  reft  thee  from  the  roar 
And  cast  thee  on  the  far  Danubian  shore, 
And  blest  the  art  that  shaped  thee  daintily! 
And  thou,  O  fragrant  tube  attenuate! 
No  more  in  the  sweet  blooming  cherry-grove, 


WILLIA  M  AUG  USTUS  GOOD  IF/.V.  2H7 


Where  the  shy  bulbul  plaintive  mourns  her  love, 

Shalt  thou  uplift  thy  blossoms  to  the  sky, 

Or  wave  them  o'er  the  waters  rippling  by; 

No  more  thy  fruit  shall  stud  with  jewels  red 

The  leafy  crown  thou  fashionedst  for  thy  head. 

Not  this  thy  fate. 

When  the  swart  damsel  from  thy  parent  tree 

Did  lop  thee  with  thy  fellows,  and  did  strip 

From  off  thee,  bleeding,  leaf  and  bud  and  blossom, 

And  bind  the  odorous  fagot  carefully, 

And  bear  thee  in  to  whom  should  fashion  thee 

And  set  new  fruit  of  amber  on  thy  tip, 

More  grateful  than  the  old  to  eye  and  lip, 

Ambrosial  odors  thou  didst  then  exhale, 

Leaving  thy  fragrance  in  her  tawny  bosom. 

Thou  still  dost  hold  it.     Nothing  may  avail 

To  rob  thee  of  the  odorous  memory 

Thou  sweetly  bearest  of  the  cherry-grove, 

Where  blossoms  bloom  and  lovers  tell  their  love, 

Bright  amber,  fragrant  wood,  enameled  clay, 

Help  me  to  burn  the  incense  worthily! 

Thou  fire,    assist!     Promethean  fire,  unbound, 

The  azure  clouds  go  wreathing  round  and  round, 

Float  slowly  up,  then  gently  melt  away; 

And  in  their  circling  wreaths  I  dimly  see 

Full  many  a  fleeting  vision's  fantasy. 

Alas!  alas! 

How  bright  soe'er  before  my  view  they  pass, 

Whether  it  be  that  Memory,  pointing  back, 

Doth  show  each  flower  along  the  devious  track 

By  which  I  came  forth  from  the  fields  of  youth,— 

Or  bright-robed  Hope  doth  deck  the  sober  truth 

With  many-colored  garments,  pointing  on 

To  lighter  days  and  envied  honor's  won, 

Or  Fancy,  taking  many  a  meiner  thing, 

Doth  gild  it  o'er  with  bright  imagining, — 

Alas!  alas! 

Light  as  the  circling  smoke,  they  fade  and  pass, 

What  time  the  last  thin  wreath  hath  faintly  sped 

Up  from  the  embers  dying,  dying,  dead ! 

To  earth's  best  blessings  fade  and  fleet  away, — 

Naught  left  but  ashes,  smoke,  and  empty  clay. 

Awake,  my  soul!  'tis  time  thou  wert  awaking! 

For  radiant  spirits,  innocent  and  fair, 

Walking  beside  thee,  hovering  in  the  air 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Down  through  the  past,  thronging  thy  future  way, 

Wait  but  thy  calling,  and  the  thraldoms  breaking 

Which,  all  unworthily,  to  sense  hath  bound  thee, 

To  bless  thy  days  and  make  the  night  around  thee 

As  bright  and  beautiful  and  fair  as  day. 

Call  thou  on  these,  my  soul,  and  fix  thee  there ! 

Name  naught  divine  which  hath  not  god-like  in  it; 

And  if  thou  burnest  incense,  let  it  be 

That  of  the  heart,  enkindled  thankfully; 

And  if  thine  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out, 

Nor  let  it  poison  all  thy  sight  forever; 

Whate'er  thou  hast  to  do  of  worth,  begin  it, 

Nor  leave  the  issue  free  to  any  doubt, 

Forgetting  never  what  thou  art,  and  never 

Whither  thou  goest,  to  the  far  Forever. 

And  then  shall  gentle  Memory,  pointing  back, 

Show  blessings  scattered  all  along  thy  track; 

And  bright-robed  Hope,  showing  thy  dreams  of  youth, 

Shall  lead  thee  up  from  dreaming  to  the  truth; 

And  Fancy,  leaving  every  nearer  thing, 

Shall  see  fulfilled  each  bright  imagining. 

Then  shall  the  ashes  of  thy  musing  be 

Only  the  ashes  of  thy  naughtiness ; 

The  smoke,  the  remnant  of  thy  vanity 

And  thorny  passions,  which  entangled  thee 

Till  thou  didst  pray  deliverance;  the  clay, 

That  empty  clay  e'en,  hath  a  power  to  bless, — 

Empty  for  that  a  gem  hath  passed  away, 

To  shine  forever  in  eternal  day. 


Jtjjdivard  <jj$,mn 


Dr.  E.  M.  Field  was  born  in  Belfast,  this  State,  July  29,  1822,  the  last  of  a  large  fam 
ily  of  eight  sons  and  one  daughter  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  in  1845,  soon  after  which 
he  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  receiving  his  degree  from  Jefferson  Medical  Col 
lege,  Philadelphia  -and  studying  the  two  following  years  in  London  and  Paris.  On 
returning  from  abroad,  he  settled  in  Bangor.  where  he  continued  in  practice  till  the 
time  of  his  death,  July  27,  1887  Though  of  a  very  retiring  nature  and  ill  fitted  to  push 
his  way  in  life,  he  yet  acquired  a  large  practice  and  won  an  excellent  reputation  as  a 
physician.  His  chief  relaxation  rind  enjoyment  (next  after  that  found  in  his  family  circle) 
was  derived  from  the  pursuit  of  literature—  and  especially  from  the  gratification  of  his 
taste  for  poetry.  He  wrote  easily  and  published  freely  but  not  taking  pains  to  preserve 
what  he  published,  the  larger  part  of  his  poems  cannot  be  collected.  They  served  their 
only  purpose  (as  far  as  he  was  concerned)  in  the  pleasure  of  composition.  Very  ar 
dent  in  his  attachments,  most  of  his  writings  \v*re  p->3ins  of  affection  called  forth  by 
events  which  occurred  in  his  family  or  among  his  friends. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 
Though  distant  far  from  thee,  mother, 
Thy  "summer-born"  may  be, 


EDWARD  MANN  FIELD.  289 

A  stranger  mid  a  stranger-band, 

O'er  leagues  of  land  and  sea; 
Yet  still  I  keep  my  childhood's  heart, 

Wherever  I  may  roam; 
^JTor  priceless  to  the  wanderer 

Are  cherished  thoughts  of  home. 

Upon  the  sea  of  life,  mother, 

That  ever  restless  deep, 
Whose  records  of  the  crossing  barque 

Eternity  must  keep; 
How  oft  above  the  deaf'ning  roar, 

Thy  low,  sweet  voice  I  hear, 
Falling  like  strains  of  long  ago 

Upon  my  list'ning  ear. 

How  oft  amid  the  gloom,  mother, 

Thy  gently  beaming  eye 
Uprises  on  my  soul,  and  bids 

The  lurking  shadows  fly; 
Then  all  is  calm,  and  bright,  and  fair, 

And  cheerful  is  my  way; 
For  visions  such  as  these  can  change 

Deep  darkness  into  day. 

How  oft  my  spirit  seeks,  mother, 

The  ingle-side  of  yore, 
Where  warm  and  loving  hearts  have  met, 

And  parted  evermore; 
First  from  the  group  a  fair-haired  girl 

Paled  suddenly  and  died ; 
The  only  sister  of  the  band 

Around  the  ingle-side ! 

Then  from  thy  very  arms,  mother, 

A  cherub  boy  was  riven, 
Who  plumed  his  scarcely  folded  wings, 

And  soared  again  to  heaven ! 
Long  have  they  lain,  those  guileless  ones, 

In  slumber  side  by  side; 
'Twere  better  thus  to  pass  away, 

Than  stem  life's  rolling  tide! 

Another  saddened  sound,  mother, 

Still  lingers  in  my  ear; 
A  sound  of  heartfelt  agony 

Above  a  father's  bier; 


i*M>  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thine  earliest  love — thy  latest  stay — 
Ceased — ind  the  world  grew  dim ; 

Yet  thou  wist  not  alone — thy  heart — 
Thy  faith,  was  fixed  on  Him. 

Though  from  our  golden  chain,  mother. 

Two  sunny  links  are  gone; 
And  he  who  loved  and  cherished  us 

From  our  embrace  is  torn; 
And  though  from  mid  our  brother-band 

New  firesides  cheerful  burn, 
Yet  sweetest,  holiest  memories 

To  that  dear  home  return: 

And  blessings  are  invoked,  mother, 

Upon  thy  sacred  heart; 
The  lips  ye  taught  to  pray  implore 

Heaven's  riches  to  impart; 
We  now  are  seven,  and  severed  far 

O'er  leagues  of  land  and  sea; 
Yet  all,  as  with  one  common  heart, 

Still  love  and  honor  thee! 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

Not  far  from  Athens'  sunny  smile, 

There  is  a  s\veet  Ionian  isle, 

Whose  fragrance  scents  Otranto's  shore, 

And  reaches  to  the  far  Marmor' ; 

Nor  Hybla's  mount,  nor  Tempo's  vale, 

So  sweetly  freight  the  passing  gale. 

'Tis  fabled  in  an  old  Greek  rune, 

That  he  who  breathed  the  sweet  perfume 

Would  lose  all  .sorrow,  all  regret. 

But  pleasure  never  would  forget. 

To  modernize  the  quaint  conceit, 

And  make  it  for  our  purpose  meet, 

Be  this  "Forget-me-not"  the  isle 

Where  Friendship's  liow'rets  sweetly  smile; 

And  when  at  some  far  distant  day 

Their  odors  o'er  thy  senses  stray, 

Forget  all  evil  and  enthrone 

In  Memory's  halls  the  good  alone; 

And  may  the  increase  of  thy  life  arise 

As  a  "sweet  savor"  fragrant  to_the  skies. 


E  UG  ENE  B  A  CUELD  ER. 


Born  about  1822,  and  a  native  of  New  Ipswich,  N.  H.  With  relatives  came  to  Saco. 
this  State,  in  1831,  and  remained  there  thirteen  years.  In  1844,  he  again  changed  his  res 
idence  to  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and  graduated  from  Harvard  J..a\v  School,  class  of  184;~> 
He  married  in  1804,  and  from  thai  time  to  his  decease  in  1878,  resided  at  Dover,  Mass. 
Mr.  Bachelder  never  practiced  law  to  any  great  extent,  its  details  not  being  congenial  to 
his  temperament.  He  published  many  poems,  which  were  considered  of  much  mer't. 
and  of  which  "  A  Romance  of  the  Sea  Serpent "  passed  through  four  editions.  With  his 
literary  efforts  he  engaged  in  the  cultivation  of  the  soil,  and  in  that  department  WMS 
quite  successful. 


FAIR  COLUMBIA. 

The  life  we  live,  we  live  for  thee, 

Columbia,  fair  Columbia ! 
No  land  so  happy,  fair  and  free, 

As  happy,  fair  Columbia ! 
Brave  souls  are  battling  for  the  right, 
Brave  hearts  are  rushing  to  the  fight, 
The  nation  rises  in  its  might, 

For  happy,  fair  Columbia ! 

Weep  for  the  gallant  valiant  men 

Who  die  for  fair  Columbia! 
They  shall  arise  to  life  again 

Above  our  fair  Columbia! 
Ah !  yes,  to  life  immortal  rise, 
And  form  an  army  in  the  skies, 
To  guard  the  freedom  freemen  prize, 

And  shield  our  fair  Columbia ! 

Hark!  to  a  patriot's  loud  appeal, 

Columbia,  fair  Columbia! 
My  mother-land  to  thee  I  kneel, 

In  prayer  for  fair  Columbia! 
Thy  glorious  chivalry  shall  rise 
With  dauntless  hearts  and  eagle  eyes, 
And  wave  victorious  to  the  skies 

Thy  banner,  fair  Columbia! 

O  God!  shall  mortal  man  control, 

In  happy,  fair  Columbia! 
The  life  of  one  immortal  soul, 

In  happy,  free  Columbia  ? 
No!  better  that  the  traitor  knaves 
Were  heaped  by  thousands  in  their  graves, 
Who  boast  they'd  make  all  freemen  slaves, 

In  happy,  fair  Columbia! 


292  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

No!  high  above,  in  clouds  of  light, 
Above  our  fair  Columbia, 

Sits  God,  the  Arbiter  of  light, 
The  Shield  of  fair  Columbia ! 

Here  hosts  on  hosts  of  angels  bright 

Are  battling  with  us  for  the  right; 

God's  arm  the  horde  of  foes  shall  smite, 
And  free  our  fair  Columbia ! 


SONG  OF  OLD  ORCHARD. 

AIR — MY    MARYLAND. 

Old  Orchard  Beach  is  broad  and  fair;  Here  the  world  seems  bright  and  gay, 

Happy,  fair  Old  Orchard.  'Here  the  hours  fly  swift  away, 

Old  Orchard  Beach  is  free  from  care,  On  the  shores  of  Saco  Bay, 

Happy,  fair  Old  Orchard.  At  happy,  fair  Old  Orchard. 

When  we  feel  our  cares  increase, 

When  we  wish  to  be  at  peace,  Hcre  's  a  riSht  Sood  ™S™S  cheer 

Then  we  fly  where  sorrows  cease,          For  halW;  f air  Old  Orchard ; 

To  happy,  fair  Old  Orchard.  Here '8  to  ^ends,  both  far  and  near, 

We've  met  at  fair  Old  Orchard. 
The  wit  and  grace  of  all  the  land      When  we  wander  far  away, 

Resort  to  fair  Old  Orchard,  Still  we'll  think  of  those  who  stay, 

They  roam  along  the  yellow  strand,  And  trust  again  to  meet  some  day, 

At  happy,  fair  Old  Orchard.  At  happy,  fair  Old  Orchard; 


urn  j&artot 


This  graceful  writer,  the  only  sister  of  Dr.  Cyrus  A.  Bartol,  elsewhere  represented  in 
this  volume,  was  born  in  Freeport,  Dec.  12,  1822,  and  at  the  age  of  two  years  accompanied 
her  parents  to  Portland,  where  she  attended  the  Grammar  and  High  Schools,  graduating 
with  high  honors.  Her  home  has  been  for  some  time  with  her  distinguished  brother,  at 
Boston.  Miss  Bartol  is  a  proficient  in  music,  and  her  poems  are  greatly  admired  for 
their  grace  and  finish.  She  has  spent  four  years  abroad. 


QUEEN  ASTER. 

"  I'm  growing  by  the  roadside,"  They  sigh,  and  pine,  and  wither, 

Said  the  swaying  aster;  Each  snowy  blossom 

I'm  growing  faster  Fading  on  earth's  bosom 

Every  night  and  day;  Into  ashen  gray; 

How  I  pity  meadow  daisies,  Few  the  friendly  eyes  to  greet  them, 

Blooming  in  such  lonely  places,  None  the  lover's  look  to  meet  them, 
Far  away !  So  far  away ! 


MA  BY  KARTOL. 


I  shine  upon  the  high  road,  Thus  whispered  to  the  breezes, 

Successor  to  the  rose ;  Heedless  of  disaster, 

Every  traveler  knows  One  gold-eyed  aster 

My  glistening  star;  Nodding  to  the  day, 

O'er  all  the  asters  that  are  seen,  Hardly  had  she  spoken, 

O'er  all  the  daisies  too,  I'm  queen,  Lo,  her  graceful  stem  was  broken, 

Near  and  far!  And  borne  away! 

Busy  dotting  o'er  the  plain,  Never  missing  her  pale  star — 

Danced  the  pitied  daisies;  Blooming  on  the  bleak  hill, 

In  barren  places  Floating  o'er  the  tide-mill 

Could  their  heads  be  seen,  Seeds  for  future  day, 
Beckonkig  there, and  bowing  thither, Gay  and  happy  swung  the  daisies, 

Never  even  asking  whither  Making  sweet  the  lonely  places, 

Moved  their  queen.  Far,  far  away! 

TWO  HANDS. 

A  little  hand,  with  magic  in  its  palm, 

Draws  me  resistless  on;  I  press 
The  sweet  and  rosy  flesh  and  feel  a  balm 

Distilling  from  the  soft  caress. 

It  is  mid-day  in  June ;  I  have  no  will 
To  check  the  baby's  words,  which  reach 

Me  half  articulate :  I  have  no  skill 

To  oppose  the  pleadings  of  his  speech. 

On,  on,  my  guide  is  monarch  of  the  hour, 

And  I  the  slave  of  that  small  hand, 
Which  flings  afar  my  fleeting  dreams  of  power, 

And  chokes  the  projects  I  had  planned. 

Two  different  hands ;  one  satin  and  one  hard, 
One  plump  and  young,  one  old  and  thin, 

And  filled  with  lines,  where  life  has  scarred 
Its  pain  and  let  confession  in. 

One  brown  and  wrinkled  hand,  one  dimpled  hand, 

The  weaker  fingers  point  one  way, 
I  tire  of  my  young  officer's  command, 

And  yet— I  dare  not  disobey ! 


MORNING. 

Above  the  hills  a  saffron  glow — 

The  heavenly  azure  deepens  higher — 

While  through  dark  pines,  gleams  long  and  low 
A  floating  lake  of  fire ! 


294  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Within  the  grove  fresh  winds  awake, 
A  little  gush  of  song  is  heard, 

And  every  plumy  leaf  of  brake 
By  breezy  sighs  is  stirred. 

One  moment's  chant— a  hush  profound — 
Soft  songs  and  ferny  dances  cease ; 

To  silence  dies  the  murmuring  sound, 
And  motion  glides  to  peace. 

The  dawn  has  come  with  ecstasy, 
And  I,  a  part  of  her  and  clay, 

Breathe  in  the  joy  she  giveth  me, 
And  put  my  care  away. 


APRIL. 

0  thou  month  of  various  moods, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  mist, 

As  if  thy  odd  vicissitudes 
First  quarreled,  and  then  kissed ; 

1  fear  thy  inconstant  winds  that  blow 
Wherever  winds  can  blow ; 

I  fear  thy  sly,  illusive  snows, 
Which  come  like  ghosts,  like  phantoms  go. 

The  lilac  buds  begin  to  pout, 

And  crocuses  arise 
In  grassy  plots,  and  stare  about, 

With  half-bewildered  eyes, 
On  gloomy  earth  and  murky  sky, 

Both  clouded  with  a  frown; 
And  crouch  with  faces  all  awry, 

Till,  like  a  sprite  from  Araby, 

Some  helping  breeze  has  flown. 

Capricious  April,  warm  thy  breath, 

And  wake  the  sleepy  crowd 
Of  folded  buds,  that  close  beneath 

The  juniper  are  bowed; 
And  call  a  smile  into  the  dawn, 

And  coax  that  smile  to  stay, 
Then  laugh,  and  shout,  and  push  the  morn 

With  frolic  into  day ! 

THE  LAST  MESSENGER. 

She  listened,  as  the  low  entreaty  reached  her  ear- 
"Dear  heart,  art  ready  now?    I'm  waiting  here! 


DAVID  AT  WOOD  WAS  SON.  295 

"Come,  take  my  hand,  late  spring-time  throws  her  snow 
"Upon  the  sleepy  land  and  worketh  woe. 

"Elsewhere  a  finer  air  will  give  thee  lighter  breath 
"And  little  dost  thou  care  that  I  am  Death. 

"Then  yield  unto  my  care,  sweet  soul,  and,  floating  freet 
"Seek  thine  own  climate,  where  one  waits  for  thee." 

She  hearkened  to  the  voice,  while  glances  of  surprise 
Enkindled  light  within  her  fading  eyes. 

Then  quick  she  closed  their  lids,  and  quick  she  journeyed  onr 
While  Death  forgot,  watched  o'er  the  flesh  alone. 


This  author  and  clergyman  was  born  in  West  Brooksville  (nearly  opposite  Castine,)  on 
the  14th  of  May,  1823.  By  teaching  in  winter,  and  performing  hard  manual  labor  in 
summer,  he  secured  enough  money  to  carry  him  to  the  middle  of  his  Junior  year  in  Bow- 
doin  College.  In  a  literary  criticism  published  in  the  columns  of  the  Portland  Tran 
script,  Mr.  Champney  tells  us  that  this  author  was  noted  in  college  for  his  acquirements- 
as  a  mathematician  and  a  debater.  After  leaving  Bo\vdoin  he  read  law  in  an  office  in 
Sedgwick,  but  soon  abandoned  the  legal  profession,  and  entered  upon  the  study  of  divin 
ity  in  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Bangor.  He  was  settled  as  assistant  pastor  of  the- 
Congregational  Church  at  Groveland,  Mass.,  on  finishing  his  course  in  the  Seminary, 
remaining  in  that  capacity  for  a  single  year.  Later,  he  established  in  Groveland  an  inde 
pendent  society,  of  which  he  remained  the  head  from  1852  to  1858.  In  the  latter  year  he 
was  attacked  with  an  incurable  spinal  disorder  which,  with  the  exception  of  a  short  time 
spent  in  foreign  travel,  kept  him  within  doors  the  rest  of  his  life,  near  Boston.  He  died 
in  January,  1887,  at'West  Medford,  Mass.  Mr.  Wasson  Avas  a  voluminous  prose  writer, 
contributing  to  the  leading  publications  of  the  day,  and  a  volume  of  sparkling  poems- 
from  his  pen  was  issued  after  his  decease. 


ROYALTY. 

That  regal  soul  I  reverence,  in  whose  eyes 
Suffices  not  all  worth  the  city  knows 
To  pay  that  debt  which  his  own  heart  he  owes ; 

For  less  than  level  to  his  bosom  rise 

The  low  crowd's  heaven  and  stars:  above  their  skies 
Runneth  the  road  his  daily  feet  have  pressed ; 
A  loftier  heaven  he  beareth  in  his  breast, 

And  o'er  the  summits  of  achieving  hies, 

With  never  a  thought  of  merit  or  of  meed; 

Choosing  divinest  labors  through  a  pride 
Of  soul  that  holdeth  appetite  to  feed 

Even  on  angel-herbage,  naught  beside ; 
Nor  praises  more  himself  for  hero-deed 

Than  stones  for  weight,  or  open  seas  for  tide. 


2<K>  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

LOVE  AGAINST  LOVE. 

As  to  the  lips  of  summer  are  its  dews, 

Or  morning's  amber  to  the  tree-top  choirs, 
So  to  my  bosom  are  the  beams  that  use 

To  raise  their  grace  from  eyes  that  love  inspires. 
Your  love,  vouchsafe  it,  royal-hearted  few, 

And  I  will  set  no  common  price  thereon : 
Oh,  I  will  keep  as  heaven  his  holy  blue, 

Or  night  her  diamonds,  that  dear  treasure  won. 
But  aught  of  duty  known  must  I  forego, 

Or  miss  one  drop  from  truth's  baptismal  hand, 
Think  poorer  thoughts,  pray  cheaper  prayers,  and  so 

Deserve  you  less,  to  meet  your  heart's  demand? 
Farewell!    Your  wish  I  for  your  sake  deny: 

Rebel  to  love,  in  truth  to  love  am  I. 


IDEALS. 

Angels  of  Growth,  of  old,  in  that  surprise 
Of  your  first  vision,  wild  and  sweet, 

I  poured  in  passionate  sighs 

My  wish  unwise 
That  ye  descend  my  heart  to  meet — 

My  heart,  so  slow  to  rise. 

Now  thus  I  pray:    Angelic  be  to  hold 
In  heaven  your  shining  poise  afar, 

And  to  my  wishes  bold 

Reply  with  cold, 
Sweet  invitation,  like  a  star 

Fixed  in  the  heavens  old. 

Did  ye  descend,  what  were  ye  more  than  I  ? 

Is't  not  by  this  ye  are  divine- 
That  native  to  the  sky, 
Ye  cannot  hie 

Downward,  and  give  low  hearts  the  wine 
That  should  reward  the  high  ? 

Weak,  yet  in  weakness  I  no  more  complain 
Of  your  abiding  in  your  places : 
Oh,  still,  howe'er  my  pain 
Wild  prayers  may  rain, 
Keep  pure  on  high  the  perfect  graces 
That  stooping  could  but  stain. 


HA  ERIE  T  MA  PION  A  T  WEL  L  8  TE  YENS.  2i)7 


twdl     tevenz. 


This  lady,  known  in  the  literary  world  as  Mrs.  H.  Marion  Stephens,  was  born  July  3, 
1823,  a  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John  Atwell.  The  romantic  town  of  Sidney  was  her  birth 
place,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Kennebec  River.  She  left  Maine  in  early  youth,  and  for 
many  years  resided  at  the  South.  Her  first  contributions,  sent  under  the  nom  deplume 
of  "Marion  Ward,"  appeared  in  the  PltimileljJna  Saturday  Courier,  and  later  phe 
wrote  frequently  for  the  J'i>rt'<n>d  Transcript,  Gteosoris  PlcwHal,  and  other  popular 
magazines  and  journals.  After  her  marriage,  in  1848,  to  Mr.  Richard  Stephens,  she 
resided  in  Boston.  She  was  an  actress  of  some  distinction.  At  one  time  she  edited 
The  floltlen  Aye.  a  monthly  magazine,  and  in  January,  1854,  published  a  volume  of  three 
hundred  pages,  comprising  a  collection  of  her  best  sketches  and  poems.  In  November 
of  the  same  year,  she  published  another  volume  entitled  "  Passion  and  Reality,"  which 
is  said  to  have  added  much  to  her  popularity.  "VVe  have  been  unable  to  trace  the  subse 
quent  career  of  this  talented  authoress. 


TO  ONE  AFAR. 
Thou  art  not  here !     The  midnight  stars  are  paling 

And  drooping  one  by  one  from  out  the  sky ! 
The  night  wind  comes  to  me  with  wilder  wailing, 

As  echo  of  my  heart— thou  art  not  by ! 
Yet  like  the  stars  my  heart  and  hopes  are  creeping 
To  that  dear  home  where  thou,  my  love,  art  sleeping. 

Thou'rt  all  my  own !  for,  like  an  angel's  blessing, 
Slumber  her  woof  of  dreams  hath  o'er  thee  thrown! 

Dost  thou  not  feel  my  lips  to  thine  now  pressing  ? 
Art  not  my  arms  entwined  amid  thine  own  ? 

Ah,  blessed  sleep !  I,  too,  might  share  it,  only 

Thou  art  not  here,  and  I  am  more  than  lonely. 

It  may  be,  dear,  that  I  am  only  dreaming; 

But  life  hath  grown  more  pleasant  than  of  yore; 
And  from  thy  lips  love  hath  a  holier  seeming. 

And  life  more  hopes  and  aims  than  heretofore : 
It  may  be,  there  will  come  a  dark  to-morrow, 
And  my  heart  waken  to  a  world  of  sorrow. 

My  spirit  moans  for  thee !  I  cannot  hush  it  1 

.    Its  pleadings  haunt  the  stillness  of  this  hour ! 

My  heart  is  in  thy  clasp !    Ah,  do  not  crush  it, 

As  a  wanton  plaything  or  an  idle  flower ! 
Morn  may  restore  the  flower,  its  bloom  departed— 
But  there's  no  morning  for  the  broken-hearted! 

TO  A  SONGSTRESS. 
I  do  not  know  thee— save  by  thoughts  that  linger, 

Dream-like  and  beautiful  upon  my  heart — 
When  my  rapt  soul,  forgetful  of  the  singer, 

Loses  itself  in  wonder  at  thy  art! 
I  do  not  know  thee,  lady;  yet  full  well 
My  spirit  bows  it  to  thy  mystic  spell. 
21 


298  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

I  do  not  know  thee !  yet  when  stars  are  beaming, 
In  softening  lustre  at  the  evening  hour, 

I  seek  the  spot  where  thy  bright  eyes  are  gleaming, 
And  yield  me  captive  to  their  witching  power! 

To  see  thee— hear  thee— silently  to  trace 

Flashings  of  genius  on  thy  lovely  face ! 

I  do  not  know  thee!  yet  my  weary  spirit, 
In  hours  of  absence,  kneeling  at  thy  shrine, 

Breathes  out  a  prayer  that  it  may  yet  inherit 

One  gleam  of  light  like  that  which  falls  from  thine. 

Yet  with  such  gift,  my  heart,  in  its  excess, 

Would  die  beneath  its  wealth  of  blissf ulness ! 

I  do  not  know  thee!  yet  when  flowers  are  springing, 
When  summer  song-birds  tales  of  joyance  tell, 

I'll  think  I  hear  thy  voice  in  concert  singing; 
My  heart  will  grow  more  human  'neath  the  spell. 

May  thy  soul's  sunshine,  undimmed  by  tears, 

Brighten  the  rugged  path  of  onward  years ! 


It  would  be  impossible,  within  the  limits  of  a  sketch,  to  do  justice  to  the  versatility  of 
this  bright  mind.  Born  Oct.  3.  182:5.  in  the  rural  town  of  Livermore,  Me.,  of  most  worthy 
parentage  he  thence  derived  the  sterling  foundations  of  his  character.  The  quiet  sur- 
roundings'of  his  home  might  have  made  him  a  very  common  hoy.  Such  he  was  not.  He 
•earlv  gave  signs  of  that  electric  nature  which  brooks  no  obstacle  in  the  attainment  of 
desired  ends.  But  his  aims  were  never  unworthy.  He  thirsted  for  knowledge,  which 
he  sought  and  found  in  every  avenue  within  his  reach.  With  keen  discrimination,  he 
assimilated  only  the  best,  and.  as  he  received,  he  gave— never  a  niggard  in  anything  that 
could  benefit  others.  Thus  his  life  was  a  growth,  rapid  indeed,  for,  at  the  midway  age  of 
thirty-five  his  work  was  done.  His  poetic  effusions,  thrown  off  at  an  early  period  of  his 
career  to  beguile  his  lonely  moments,  were  as  mere  exhalations  from  his  fervent  soul; 
yet  some  of  them  evince  profound  thought.  He  was  ever  approachable,  a  delightful 
companion,  often  mirthful  and  magnetic.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  his  conversation,  while 
terse  and  suggestive,  was  remarked  for  purity  and  elegance  of  diction.  In  music  he  was 
an  amateur;  but  in  art  was  his  delight.  It  became  also  his  engrossing  pursuit.  In  many 
New  England  homes,  his  portraits  are  still  cherished  as  household  gods,  \\hile  thus 
laboring  at  his  chosen  vocation,  ever  forgetful  of  self,  he  was  stricken  by  the  heavy  hand 
of  disease.  Still,  he  worked  on,  more  and  more  enamored  by  the  wondrous  possibilities 
of  his  beloved  art  Then  the  brush  fell  from  his  hand;  consumption  had  done  its  work; 
but  he,  was  conqueror,  and  his  freed  spirit  went  forth,  whither  w«  may  well  desire  to  fol 
low  him.  He  was  an  own  cousin,  on  his  mother's  side,  to  the  poet,  Arlo  Bates,  also  to 
Rebecca  Sophia  Clark,  better  known  as  "  Sophie  May."  Mr.  Haynes  was  married  in  the 
autumn  of  '52  to  Miss  Harriet  Williams,  of  Augusta,  Me.,  who  survives  him,  with  two 
daughters -Mrs.  H.  C.  James,  of  St.  Paul,  Minn.,  and  Mrs.  Clifford  Jaynes,  of  \Vest 
Newton,  Mass. 

THE  REVELATIONS  OF  NATURE. 

Poet,  that  mak'st  wild  haunts  thy  choice, 

And  their  bird  minstrelsy, 
The  woodlands  have  a  winning  voice,— 

What  do  they  say  to  thee  ? 


FRANCIS  GEEENLEAF  HAYNES.  2f» 

Then  he,  in  calm  and  gentle  voice, 

Made  answer  unto  me : 
"Sweet  Nature's  music  and  her  joys 

I  cannot  tell  to  thee. 

First,  should  thy  heart  be  free  as  air, 

From  guilt  and  darkness  free, 
Then,  lifting  it  from  toil  and  care, 

Nature  will  answer  thee. 

Mountain  and  lake  and  sunny  slope 

Thy  book  of  truth  shall  be, 
And  stars,  which  gem  the  ebon  cope, 

Shall  surely  answer  thee. 

Hast  seen  the  starlight  trembling  steal 

From  out  the  tranquil  sea  ? 
Thus  Heaven  in  nature  shall  reveal 

The  "Light  of  life"  to  thee." 

There's  not  a  leaf  within  life's  book 

My  eye  has  ever  met; 
There's  not  a  page  on  which  I  look, 

I'd  willingly  forget. 

For  well  I  know,  the  webs  of  thought, 

In  all  their  varied  tissues, 
By  every  event  are  wrought 

To  form  life's  sacred  issues. 

We  needed  every  false  belief, 

Our  joy — our  melancholy; 
God  could  not  spare  one  hour  of  grief, 

One  moment  of  our  folly. 

Their  influence  around  us  lingers, 

A  half-hid  mystery; 
They  are  the  marks  of  angel  fingers, 

Writing  our  destiny. 


THE  DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

Each  closing  day  they  die  away, 
The  tones  we  love  to  hear, 

And  one  by  one  the  forms  decay, 
That  were  to  us  so  dear. 


300  TEE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


But  from  Life's  tree  the  leaves  may  fall 

Around  us  as  they  will; 
We  but  a  moment  hear  their  call, 

While  it  is  summer  still. 

Alas!  we  every  day  forget 

The  lessons  of  the  past, 
Nor  dream  another  new  regret 

Shall  follow  on  the  last. 

Forget  'tis  Providence  controls, 
That  all  our  precious  things 

Are  little  angels  to  our  souls, 
Whom  he  hath  given  wings. 

When  far  beyond,  we  think  of  this ; 

When,  through  each  mortal  change, 
Our  souls  have  entered  into  bliss 

Of  wider,  higher  range, 

Shall  we  not  see  in  what  we  are 
All  life  and  death  combined, 

To  force  through  circles  widening  far 
The  all-embracing  mind  ? 


"RISE  UP  AND  WALK." 

Eve,  with  slowly  fading  light, 

O'er  the  ancient  city  fell, 
To  the  Temple's  sacred  height, 

Bringing  silence  like  a  spell; 
Holy  men  were  entering  there, 
For  it  was  the  hour  of  prayer. 

One  there  was,  of  low  estate, 

Whom  they  brought  from  day  to-day, 
To  the  Temple's  Beautiful  gate, 

Where  in  mournful  guise  he  lay, 
Helpless  beggar,  lone  and  lame, 
Asking  alms  of  all  who  came. 

Here,  for  many  weary  years, 
Grew  the  wrinkles  on  his  brow, 

Childhood  came  and  went  in  tears. 
But  a  deeper  sadness  now 

Made  the  passing  pilgrim  pause, 

Marking  how  forlorn  he  was. 


FRANCIS  GR  EENLEA  F  HA  TN  ES.  301 


Confident  in  health  and  strength, 
Many  passed,  but  knew  him  not; 

He  had  ceased  to  strive,  at  length. 
Hopeless  of  a  better  lot; 

But  with  ever  open  palms, 

Patient  sat  he,  asking  alms. 

Peter  answered,  "Look  on  me: 
Gold  and  silver  have  I  none, 

Such  as  have  I,  give  I  Wee." 
Then,  with  deeply  solemn  tone, — 

"Rise  up,  strong  in  heart  and  frame; 

Rise  and  walk,  in  Jesus'  name." 

O  with  what  new  joy  elate, 

Springing  lightly  from  the  sod, 

Entered  he  the  Temple  gate, 
Leaping,  walking,  praising  God! 

Better  far  than  earthly  wealth, 

Came  to  him  the  boon  of  health. 

O'er  our  dim  and  finite  sense, 

Though  we  wander  from  His  call, 

Thus  the  great  Beneficence 
Dawns  alike  and  blesses  all. 

Though  we  ask  a  stone,  instead, 

Doth  our  Father  give  us  bread  ? 

Hearts  that  burn  with  ancient  fires, 
Strangers  to  the  hidden  Best, 

Seek,  with  all  the  old  desires, 
El  Dorados  in  the  West;' 

With  an  inward  prayer  for  gold, 

Daring  dangers  manifold. 

Hark!  o'er  all,  the  constant  tone, 
Making  discord  harmony ! 

"  Gold  and  silver  have  I  none, 
Such  as  have  I,  give  I  tliee."1 

Thine,  beyond  the  din  of    strife, 

Is  the  discipline  of  life! 

Thine,  a  better,  higher  fate — 
E'en  thy  pathway  to  complete, 

Leading  to  the  Beautiful  gate, 
Leading  to  the  Saviour's  feet! 

There,  overshadowed  by  the  Rock, 

Humble  spirit,  "rise  and  walk." 


302  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


A  BROTHER'S  MEMORY. 

It  was  a  sunny,  glorious  morn, 
T  dwelt  among  the  speeding  hours, 

And  saw  my  brother's  radiant  form 
Come  dancing  'mong  the  flowers. 

A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder  laid, 
An  eye  that  spake  its  deep  desire 

Looked  in  my  own,  as  if  it  said, 
"Come,  brother,  come  up  higher."" 

To  see  him  walking  by  my  side, 
His  form  so  tall  and  manly  grown, 

Methought  in  every  noble  pride 
My  brother  stood  alone. 

A  hand  was  on  his  shoulder  laid, 
Upon  his  brow  and  in  his  eye 

A  radiant,  startling  beauty  played, 
Like  sunset  in  the  sky. 

And  now,  his  voice  was  in  my  soul, 
With  echo,  sweet  as  angel's  lyre, 

And,  holding  full  and  deep  control, 
Still  whispered,  "  Come  up  higher.'1'1 

I  asked,  obedient  to  the  tone, 

What  path  of  toil  we  next  should  dare, 
And  whither  ? — but  I  stood  alone, 

My  brother  was  not  there. 

I  woke — it  was  a  glorious  morn, 

Borne  onward  by  the  speeding  hours, 

But  nevermore  my  brother's  form 
Came  bounding  'mong  the  flowers. 


jjrownq. 


Col.  Jacob  W.  Browne  was  born  in  Albany,  Me.,  Dec.  2,  1822.  He  entered  Bowdoin 
College  in  184G,  taught  mathematics  and  the  languages  two  years  in  West  brook  Semi 
nary,  and  was  assistant  principal,  with  Prof.  Hinds,  in  establishing  Norway  Liberal  Insti 
tute.  He  studied  law  three  years  with  Hon..  Klbridge  Gerry  at  Waterford.  teaching  the 
High  School  at  Windham  several  terms  in  the  meanwhile.  He  was  admitted  to  the 
Oxford  Bar  in  1851,  and  located  in  Buckfield  the  following  year,  where  lie  opened  an 
office  and  remained  till  1857  He  then  located  in  Efirlville.  111.,  where  he  now  resides, 
having  acquired  financial  prosperity.  He  was  married  in  1859  to  ^Irs.  Margaret  .).  Bis- 
bee.  daughter  of  Capt.  James  Spaul'ding,  of  Bucktield.  Mr.  Browne  for  many  years  has 
been  a  frequent  contributor  of  poetical  composition  to  the  press,  and  he  is  now  collect 
ing  his  poems  for  publication  in  book  form. 


JACOB  WARD  WELL  BROWNE.  303 


MY  KITTIE. 

Her  grave  is  prankt  with  lilies  white, 
And  trickling  intertween  with  light: 

Awake. 

O  for  a  long,  long  thrilling  kiss 
From  her  dear  lips— O  such  sweet  bliss- 
Awake,  Kittie,  awake. 

Long  hath  she  slept— sweetly  sleeping- 
Poor  me!  waiting,  watching,  weeping; 
Awake. 

0  God  from  out  the  heavens  above, 
Breathe  on  her  pity,  mercy,  love ; 

Awake,  Kittie,  awake. 

Wake  her  from  sleep— God  in  pity 
Part  the  curtains— wake  my  Kittie — 
Awake. 

1  cannot  live — I  cannot  stay 

So  long,  so  far  from  her  away — 

Awake,  Kittie,  awake. 

AGE. 

Older,  older,  older  still- 
Youth  is  dead — and  age  is  chill — 

Now  on  my  staff 
I  will  hobble  out  and  in, 
White  with  rime— and  eyes  a-dim — 

I '11  never  laugh. 

Trees  are  in  the  yellow  leaf- 
Corn  is  in  the  yellow  sheaf— 

I  question  why 

I  should  weave  the  woof  of  life, 
Through  the  tangled  web  of  strife, 

And  then  should  die! 

Rainy  days— and  rainy  nights— 
Quiv'ring  through  no  ray  of  light 

Ever  streaming; 
"Murky  clouds— silver  lining,"- 
Fiction!  false!  rythmic  whining  — 

Simply  dreaming. 

The  days  are  dark— nights  are  dreary — 
My  soul  is  sad — sick— aweary— 
O  rest!  O  sleep! 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Away,  away,  dull  cank'ring  care, 
Out  of  this  life— aye,  anywhere ; 

O  rest!  sweet!  deep! 


KITTIE'S  GRAVE. 
Down  into  God's  Acre  yestreen, 
Where  rests  are  sweet  rests— and  the  dead 
Eftsoons  will  wake  from  their  sleeping, 
To  mansions  above — with  soft  tread  — 
I  went— in  my  going  I  noted 
One  dear  little  grave  on  the  hill 
Where  sleeps  mid  bird,  bud  and  blossom, 
My  darling,  so  peaceful,  so  still. 

Soft  winds  came  in  at  the  gateway 
O'erladen  with  odors  so  sweet — 
Kissing  away  from  my  eyelids 
The  tears,  as  I  knelt  at  her  feet; 
Meseemed  sweet  face  of  my  darling, 
Upturned  to  my  face  in  greeting, 
Pressed  lips  to  lips  so  sweetly 
As  erst  in  our  last  sad  meeting. 

Raven-winged  silence  was  round  me, 
Save  hum-drumming  freebooter  bee — 
Sweet  clouds  were  shedding  a  tear-mist, 
In  weeping  for  darling  and  me. 
Planting  the  rose  by  her  bedside, 
I  promised  my  darling  for  years 
To  visit  and  tenderly  water 
This  rose  in  the  heart's  warmest  tears. 

I  will  leave  her  grave— in  leaving, 
With  buckler,  helmet  and  shield, 
I'll  gird  myself  for  life's  conflicts, 
And,  with  sword  in  truth  annealed, 
I'll  plunge  into  life's  hot  battles, 
I  will  win  or  lose  in  the  game; 
The  brave,  sweet  soul  of  my  KITTIE 
Shall  guide  me  forever  the  same. 


n  jjiiijonfon  pw«#. 


Lucy  Ilsley  (Simonton)  Vining.  daughter  of  .Tames  Simonton,  of  Portland,  was  born  in 
Portland,  Me.,  March  13,  1824  Her  early  poems  and  stories  were  published  in  The.  Port- 
bind  Transcript,  nnder  the  signature  of  "  Luoie."  In  1849  she  married  Harrison  S. 
Vining,  of  Portland,  removing  soon  after  to  Brooklyn,  N.  V.,  which  became  her  perma- 


LUCY  ILSLEY  SIMONTON  VINING.  305 

nent  home.  Continuing  her  literary  habits,  she  still  contributed,  as  "  Mrs.  L.  I.  Vining." 
•occasional  poems,  stories  and  essays  to  the  Traiwript,  Horn?  Journal,  and  other  period 
icals.  She  has  collected  her  poems,  revising  many  written  in  her  early  years,  and  adding 
several  more  lengthy  than  any  of  her  published  productions,  making  a  handsome  auto 
graph  edition,  which  awaits  possible  future  publication. 


MY  PORTLAND  HOME. 

When  the  summer  days  come,  bringing 

Leaf  and  bud  and  flower, 
And  the  happy  birds  are  singing — 

All  the  earth  their  bower; 
When  the  ant  her  treasure  storeth, 

And  the  bee  its  sweets, 
While  the  butterfly  ignoreth 

Care  for  time  that  fleets ; 

When  the  earth  is  glad  with  brightness, 

And  the  air  with  sound, 
And  the  heart  leaps  up  for  lightness 

E'en  from  gravest  round, 
Then  old  memories  come  thronging, 

Call  the  child  once  more, 
And  I  yield  me  to  the  longing, — 

Seek  the  open  door. 

Where  the  Casco  runs  in  beauty, 

Like  a  silver  thread, 
Holding  back  in  loving  duty 

Stern  Atlantic's  tread, 
There's  a  thickly  peopled  valley, 

Hills  on  either  side — 
Giant  sentinels  that  rally 

To  their  posts  with  pride. 

There  Munjoy,*  while  gazing  seaward, 

Counteth,  too,  its  dead; 
Tells  what  hearts  are  bounding  leeward 

And  what  hopes  have  fled. 
Woods  of  Deering  tell  the  story 

Of  an  elder  day, 
Stalwart  oaks  recording  glory 

Almost  passed  away. 


*  Munjoy  Hill — site  of  observatory,  used  as  a  signal  station  for  incoming 
the  foot  of  the  hill  lies  the  Eastern  Cemetery,  the  oldest  in  the  city. 


80<i  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Many  a  spire  lifts  sparkling  finger, 

Calling  sunshine  down, 
And  the  twilight  loves  to  linger 

On  the  good  old  town. 
Dome  and  flag-staff  float  the  banner 

Of  a  nation  free, 
And  Huzza  becomes  Hosannah 

Prizing  Liberty. 
• 

Many  years  ago,  life's  changes 

Made  my  feet  to  roam, 
But,  nor  time,  nor  space  estranges,— 

Still  I  call  it  home. 
Foster  city  may  surpass  it 

Boasting  wealth  and  art, 
But  a  filial  love  will  class  it 

Darling  of  my  heart. 

There  at  once  I'm  reinstated 

By  an  instinct  true, 
Consciously  incorporated 

With  its  Old  and  New. 
If  through  scenes  familiar  straying, 

Strangers  meet  I  there, 
Guests  are  they;  I,  fond  surveying, 

Am  the  child  and  heir. 

Blest  New  England's  sons  and  daughters, 

Do  we  know  the  power 
Of  the  gentle  lessons  taught  us 

In  our  childhood's  hour? 
Deeper  than  green  valley  hideth, 

Firmer  than  her  hills, 
Love  of  home  and  kindred  bideth 

Through  all  time  and  ills. 

So  let  memories  come  thronging 

Calling  me  once  more, 
Till  I  joyful  heed  the  longing,— 

Reach  the  open  door. 
Father!  Mother!  all  dear  faces 

'Neath  the  elm  tree's  shade, 
I  thank  God  in  pleasant  places 

Childhood's  lot  was  laid. 


LUCY  ILSLKY    SIMONTON  VINING.  307 


STRIFE  AND  VICTORY. 

Every  nature  holds  the  essence 
Of  a  grand  and  God-like  power, 

Only  needs  its  conscious  presence 
To  grow  worthy  of  the  dower; 

When  within  new  impulse  crieth, 

Quick  the  voice  divine  replieth. 

God  has  put  no  chain  on  spirit, 

Set  no  line,  no  sword-girt  tree ; 
All  His  kingdom  we  inherit 

Boundless  as  immensity. 
What  then  keeps  our  souls  from  soaring 
But  distrust,  our  strength  ignoring  ? 

Does  the  bee,  in  rose  imprisoned, 
Wait  for  sun  to  burst  the  leaves  ? 

No,  it  struggles,  and  dew-christened 
Soon  its  liberty  achieves. 

Shall  we,  wrapped  in  earth's  soft  pleasures, 

Wait  till  death  reveals  our  treasures  ? 

Lo !  the  lamb  that  seeks  the  mountain, 
Does  not  pause  for  tempest's  shock, 

Heeds  not  grass  nor  cooling  fountain, 
But  leaps  bold  from  rock  to  rock. 

Ease !  weak  man  thou  oft  allurest, 

But  the  roughest  path  is  surest. 

Ah !  we  learn  the  lesson  slowly, 
That  our  strength  is  in  our  will; 

Be  our  mission  high  or  lowly, 
All  our  task  we  can  fulfil. 

Conflict,  patient  till  victorious, 

In  the  sight  of  God,  is  glorious. 


TRUST  IN  GOD. 

In  quest  of  joy,  the  busy  heart  and  brain 

Keep  up  a  ceaseless  round,  from  day  to  day. 
Just  one  thing  lacking,  all  the  rest  are  vain, 

Yet  that  we  seek,  from  these  we  turn  away. 
We  dare  not  yield  our  all,  though  love  entreats, 

We  miss  the  substance,  by  false  glare  deceived; 
We  shrink  from  Truth,  unless  her  voice  repeats 

What  Hope  has  whispered  and  our  hearts  believed. 


308  THE  POETS  OF  MA  IN  E. 

The  mind  o'er  matter  triumphs;  but  the  soul 

Scill  tugs  the  chain  and  closer  draws  the  links; 
Impatient  of  restraint,  sees  part,  not  whole, — 

Inclines  to  what  it  feels,  not  what  it  thinks; 
So  drags  the  human  on,  'neath  weight  of  dust, 

The  spirit  strong  could  shake  from  off  its  wings, 
And  murmurs  when  God's  laws,  its  surest  trust, 

Deny  to  change  unalterable  things. 

Infinitude  of  parts,  one  mighty  mind 

Conceives  and  grasps  and  bends  with  will  supreme. 
Each  to  its  place  will  nice  adjustment  find, 

When  light  on  God's  great  plan  at  last  shall  gleam. 
But  we,  like  children  at  dissecting  maps, 

From  lack  of  wisdom  and  diviner  thought, 
Must  wait  to  find  through  mazes  of  Perhaps 

What  beautiful  completeness  shall  be  wrought. 

How,  rolling  calm,  the  everlasting  years 

That  blend  forever  human  with  divine 
Rebuke  the  wild  unrest,  the  useless  fears, 

The  heart  unsatisfied  without  a  sign. 
Did  Christ,  the  Fatherhood,  so  vainly  teach 

That  we  see  not  the  mansion  well  prepared  ? 
Or  from  that  promise,  do  we  fail  to  reach 

The  faith  that  knows  all  joys  and  sorrows  shared  ? 

The  Comforter  is  nearer  than  we  think ; — 

Our  outstretched  hand,  our  faces  turned  that  way, 
Alone  are  wanting  to  complete  the  link 

That  draws  through  darkness  the  effulgent  day. 
In  us  the  kingdom  is ;  in  it  we  dwell 

When  perfect  trust  proclaims  the  victory  won, 
And  God  has  joy  when  stricken  mortals  tell 

Their  woes  and  say  ''Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 

O  grandest  consummation  of  the  whole, 

When  creature  to  Creator  gives  delight! 
How  may  the  Possible  in  human  soul 

Approach  the  Infinite  to  angel  sight. 
With  reverent  awe  we  tremble  while  we  feel 

A  glow  within  of  the  celestial  flame; 
Oneness  with  God  our  quickened  souls  reveal 

In  life,  in  death,  in  heaven,  our  highest  aim. 


ISAAC  COBB. 


feaar  §  all). 


Isaac  Cobb  was  born  in  Gorham,  Maine,  April  28.  1825,  the  son  of  Ebenezer  and  Mary 
(Larrabee)  Cobb.  He  received  a  common-school  education,  which  was  supplemented  by 
a  short  academic  course.  He  taught  school  in  his  own  district  during  two  summers, 
after  which,  in  -lanuary,  1851.  he  went  to  Boston,  where  he  attended  a  Commercial  Insti 
tute  and  published  a  volume  of  poems,  (Sulwm  /'ofm-O  and  to  Hudson,  N.  Y.,  in  May 
of  the  same  year,  where  he  essayed  to  learn  the  "art  preservative  of  arts,"  in  the 
office  of  William  B.  Stoddard,  for  whose  paper,  the  Knral  Repository,  he  had  previously 
contributed  articles  in  prose  and  verse.  In  August  of  that  year  he  went  to  New  York 
City,  where  he  passed  several  winters,  sojourning  in  Boston  during  the  intervening  sum 
mers,  writing  for  the  papers,  and  often  putting  his  productions  into  type  with  the  hand 
that  wrote  them.  In  1854  he  returned  to  Maine,  and  settled  in  Portland.  He  married 
Louisa  M.  Richardson,  daughter  of  Isaac  and  Abigail  (Chick)  Richardson,  of  Gorham, 
April  5,  1855.  In  .June  of  the  same  year,  he  entered  the  office  of  the  K-utern  4r  ins, 
working  mainly  by  night  on  the  telegraphic  news.  Early  in  1865,  he  began  to  work  in  the 
office  of  the  Portland  Transcript,  continuing  there  until  the  present  time.  He  has  been 
a  contributor  of  articles  in  verse  for  various  periodicals  since  18t:j,  such  as  the  Portland 
Tritmne.  (Portland)  Tribune  and  Bulletin,  Portland.  Transcript,  New  York  Evening 
Post,  Christian  Parlor  Magazine  Christian  Witness,  Youth's  Cabinet,  Waver'ey  Maq- 
azine,  Maine  Coast  Newx,  etc.  He  caught  his  first  poetic  inspiration  from  the  woods 
and  Melds  of  his  native  town,  to  which  memory  still  fondly  reverts.  He  is  a  member  of 
the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  of  the  Typosraphical  Union,  and  of  the  Maine  Genea 
logical  Society.  Recently  he  has  furnished  articles  for  The  Maine  Historical  and  Gene 
alogical  Recorder,  published  by  Librarian  Stephen  AI.  Watson,  Portland. 


MY   NAME. 
If  in  the  sand  I  write  my  name, 

What  profit  shall  it  be  to  me  ? 
Shall  I  thereby  attnin  to  fame, 

Or  gain  in  honor  one  degree  ? 
So  writes  the  warrior  when  he  strives 
For  glory  over  others'  lives. 

What  if  I  carve  my  name  in  wood, 
In  letters  drawn  with  utmost  care  ? 

Time  like  a  canker-worm  may  brood 
And  eat  my  autograph  from  there. 

So  writes  the  man  who  seeks  for  wealth, 

And  perils  happiness  and  health. 

No!  let  my  name  be  cut  in  stone, 
Each  character  inlaid  with  gold, 

That  I  in  triumph,  all  alone, 
May  loudly  laugh  at  heroes  bold ! 

Alas !  what  is  there  that  decay 

May  not  attack  and  wear  away? 

But  if  I  write  my  lowly  name, 
Or  bid  my  Saviour  write  it  there, 

On  Heaven's  eternal  scroll  of  fame, 
Time  shall  not  mar  the  writing  fair, 

Nor  storms  nor  revolutionary  strife 

Efface  it  from  the  Book  of  Life. 


310  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE. 

A  pilgrim  in  the  world  of  time, 
Bound  for  the  holy  land  of  rest, 

With  vigor  and  intent  sublime, 
And  faith  to  animate  his  breast, 

Pressed  boldly  on  the  narrow  way, 

Without  a  wish  to  go  astray. 

The  sun  afforded  kindly  light, 
And  nature  smiled  upon  him  there; 

His  conscience  told  him  he  was  right, 
And  gave  the  will  to  do  and  dare. 

The  path  was  plain  beneath  his  feet, 

And  seemed  withal  a  paven  street. 

But  as  he  walked  with  steady  tread, 
And  felt  secure  in  selfish  pride, 

He  thrust  aside  the  Hand  that  led, 
And  trusted  in  another  guide: 

He  listened  to  the  sounds  that  rose 

From  other  paths  than  wisdom  chose. 

He  heard  a  siren's  witching  voice, 
And  wandered  from  the  way  of  life, 

Forgetful  of  his  early  choice 
To  shun  the  haunts  of  sin  and  strife, 

Unmindful  of  instructions  given 

To  fix  his  eyes  011  nought  but  heaven. 

He  wandered  on,  but  knew  it  not, 
So  darkly  blinded  was  his  soul; 

He  walked  along  a  charmed  spot, 
Despising  virtuous  control ; 

He  took  the  hand  of  blushless  shame, 

And  loudly  scoffed  when  told  the  blame. 

Yet  ere  his  feet  had  wandered  far, 
His  heart  began  with  fear  to  swell ; 

He  missed  the  radiance  of  the  star 
Set  in  the  sky  his  way  to  tell, 

And,  as  he  looked,  deep  shadows  drew 

Their  veil  across  the  vaulted  blue. 

No  solid  foothold  there  he  found, 
Who  vainly  thought  he  was  secure, 


ISAAC  COBB.  ail 


Where  pits  and  quagmires  filled  the  ground, 

With  ignes-f atui  to  illure ! 
Appalling  darkness  held  him  there, 
And  beckoned  to  the  ghost  Despair. 

In  agony  he  cried  aloud 

To  earthly  friend  and  then  to  foe, 
For  them  to  lift  from  him  the  cloud, 

And  unto  him  his  pathway  show. 
Alas !  he  cried  to  vacant  space, 
Where  even  echo  found  no  place. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  a  Power,— 
The  Omnipresent,  the  All- Wise, — 

To  whom  to  call  in  that  dark  hour, 
For  light  to  overspread  the  skies: 

He  humbly  knelt  upon  the  sod, 

And  raised  his  hands  and  voice  to  God. 

Not  long  he  waited  ere  once  more 
Appeared  the  glorious  Morning  Star, 

To  guide  him  to  the  heavenly  shore; 
And  though  he  had  departed  far, 

He  found  again  the  holy  way, 

With  stern  resolve  no  more  to  stray. 


THE  TWO  LONE  ELMS. 

Two  elm-trees  by  the  wayside  grow, 
Their  branches  by  the  zephyr  swayed, 

And  many  a  traveler,  I  know, 
Feels  grateful  for  their  cooling  shade. 

Behind  them  once  a  dwelling  stood, 
Perhaps  upon  the  self-same  spot, 

Cleared  from  the  old  primeval  wood, 
Whereon  the  red  man  built  his  cot. 

A  garden  thrived  not  far  away, 
The  work  of  industry  and  care, 

In  which  from  morn  till  evening  gray 
A  yeoman  toiled  in  weather  fair. 

Beneath  that  dwelling's  gable  wide, 
He  passed  the  silent  hours  of  night, 

And  oft  in  dreams  his  hands  he  plied 
Until  the  morrow's  dawning  light. 


312  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

The  plants  each  day  from  weeds  he  freed, 
And  raised  the  earth  the  young  blades  near, 

So  that  in  autumn,  as  his  meed, 
The  golden  corn-ears  might  appear. 

The  orchard  put  forth  blossoms  rare, 
An  earnest  of  the  glorious  crown 

Of  fruitage  that  the  trees  should  bear, 
The  sturdy  branches  weighing  down. 

The  cattle  grazed  beyond  the  bars 
And  fence  that  kept  them  from  the  wheat, 

And  ere  the  coming  of  the  stars, 
Returned  they  to  the  barn's  retreat. 

But  now  remains  no  dwelling  there, 
No  woodland  skirts  the  verdant  lawn; 

The  orchard  and  the  garden  fair 

To  join  the  past  have  long  since  gone. 

The  men  who  tilled  the  fallow  ground 
No  more  the  fruits  of  toil  enjoy; 

No  more  the  good  wife's  wheel  goes  round, 
Nor  swifts  and  looms  her  hands  employ. 

No  more  the  hymn  and  prayer  are  heard 
Within  the  husbandman's  abode; 

No  more  the  reading  of  the  Word 
That  points  unto  the  heavenly  road. 

But  spare,  O  Time,  those  two  lone  trees, 
And  do  not  thou  one  branch  destroy, 

That  noonday  travelers  the  breeze 
And  cooling  shade  may  still  enjoy. 


MY  FAVORITE  FLOWER. 

One  flower  more  truly  I  admire 
Than  all  the  others  put  together; 

It  is  not  decked  in  gay  attire, 
Nor  blooms  alone  in  sunny  weather. 

Its  tints  it  borrows  from  the  sky, 

And  envies  not  its  gorgeous  neighbor; 

The  beauty  of  its  modest  eye 
Rewards  the  florist's  patient  labor. 


ISAAC  COBB. 


Sometimes  it  hides  among  its  leaves, 
So  that  we  almost  fail  to  find  it, 

And  then  our  poet  sadly  grieves 
That  in  a  wreath  he  cannot  bind  it. 

But  coy  or  bold,  at  morn  or  eve, 
It  looketh  toward  the  azure  heaven, 

That  thankfully  it  may  receive 
The  drops  of  dew  so  freely  given. 

Wouldst  thou  this  floweret's  name  discover, 
That  blooms  on  many  a  cherished  spot  ? 

Go  ask  some  fond,  true-hearted  lover, 
Who  oft  has  cried,  "Forget  me  not!" 


THE  OLD  PASTUKE. 
The  green  old  pasture  by  the  wood, 

Where  grazed  the  oxen,  sheep  and  cows. 
Where  many  a  noble  beech-tree  stood, 

And  many  a  maple  spread  its  boughs, 
In  fancy  I  behold  once  more, 
And  look  on  scenes  I  knew  of  yore. 

The  little  knolls  where  mosses  grew, 
The  ragged  stumps  of  fallen  pines, 

The  vernal  flowers  of  modest  hue, 
On  upright  stems  and  trailing  vines, 

In  memory  again  appear, 

And  songs  of  birds  I  seem  to  hear. 

There  was  a  brook  where  fishes  dwelt, 
And  dragon-flies  on  fierce  wings  played ; 

Where  blue-flags  bloomed,  and  where  we  knelt 
To  gather  lilies  as  we  strayed  ;— 

Where  reeds  and  rushes  erewhile  throve, 

Which  often  into  caps  we  wove. 

No  wild  beasts  had  their  lurking  bowers 
Within  the  precincts  of  the  wood, 

Though  childish  fancy  at  late  hours 
Looked  thitherward  in  trembling  mood ; 

For  bears  and  wolves  too  often  were 

The  theme  of  stories  meant  to  scare. 

The  squirrel  lived  in  hollow  trees, 

And  sometimes  burrowed  in  the  ground : 
22 


314  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Oft  chattering,  his  mate  to  please, 

He  told  of  nuts  and  acorns  found; 
He  ruffed  his  fur  ill  very  glee, 
And  looked  defiantly  at  me. 

The  woodchuck  had,  beneath  a  knoll, 
A  home  which  he  himself  had  made. 

He  never  wandered  from  his  hole, 
When  boys  or  dogs  to  watch  him  staid ; 

But  still  he  found  a  chance  to  stray, 

And  nibbled  clover  every  day. 

The  tuneful  thrush,  with  answering  note, 
To  cheer  his  lonely  bride  essayed; 

The  whip-poor-will  swelled  wide  his  throat, 
When  evening  ruled  the  solemn  glade, — 

A  terror  oft  to  wicked  youth, 

When  they  forgot  to  tell  the  truth. 

An  old  gray  owl  we  sometimes  heard, 
Though  where  he  lived  I  never  learned; 

He  was  a  wondrous  knowing  bird, 

Though  what  he  knew  we  scarce  discerned : 

He  hooted  through  the  hours  of  night 

A  solo  to  the  moon's  pale  light. 

Such  was  the  pasture  that  I  knew, 
To  which  at  morn  I  drove  the  cows; 

They  loved  the  grasses  which  there  grew, 
And  on  the  leaves  of  shrubs  to  browse, 

But  came  at  sunset  down  the  lea, 

And  waited  at  the  bars  for  me. 

But  now,  alas !  the  iron  rail 
Extends  across  that  pasture  green, 

And,  rolling  through  the  sylvan  dale, 
The  locomotive  train  is  seen ; 

While  shrill,  hoarse  sounds  transfix  with  fear 

The  dwellers  of  the  forest  near. 

The  wood,  the  brook,  how  changed  are  they ! 

Where  are  our  favorite  birds  and  flowers  ? 
They  cheer  not  as  in  childhood's  day 

Our  cherished  haunts  in  sylvan  bowers ; 
No  more  the  cows  wait  at  the  bars, 
As  when  there  were  no  railway  cars. 


BENJAMIN  PAUL  AKEBS.  315 


§aal 


Benjamin  P.  Akers.  poet  and  sculptor,  whose  wife  (Mrs.  Elizabeth  Akers)  is  elsewhere 
represented  in  this  volume,  was  born  at  Saccarappa,  .July  10,  1825.  He  passed  several 
years  at  Rome,  whither  he  went  in  1855.  Among  hi*  works  are  busts  of  Edward  Everett 
and  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  and  a  head  of  Milton.  Mr.  Akers  died  in  Philadelphia,  May 
21,  1861.  The  following  poem  from  his  pen  appeared  originally  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 


THE  ARTIST-PRISONER. 

Here,  in  this  vacant  cell  of  mine, 
I  picture  and  paint  my  Apennine. 

In  spite  of  walls  and  gyved  wrist, 
I  gather  my  gold  and  amethyst. 

The  muffled  footsteps  ebb  and  swell, 
Immutable  tramp  of  sentinel, 

The  clinched  lip,  the  gaze  of  doom, 
The  hollow-resounding  dungeon-gloom, 

All  fade  and  cease,  as,  mass  and  line, 
I  shadow  the  sweep  of  Apennine, 

And  from  my  olive  palette  take 

The  marvelous  pigments,  flake  by  flake. 

With  azure,  pearl,  and  silver  white, 
The  purple  of  bloom  and  malachite, 

Ceiling,  wall,  and  iron  door, 

When  the  grim  guard  goes,  I  picture  o'er. 

E'en  where  his  shadow  falls  athwart 

The  sunlight  of  noon,  I've  a  glory  wrought, 

Have  shaped  the  gloom  and  golden  shine 
To  image  my  gleaming  Apennine. 

No  cruel  Alpine  heights  are  there, 
Dividing  the  depths  of  pallid  air; 

But  sea-blue  liftings,  far  and  fine, 
With  drif  tings  of  pearl  and  coralline ; 

And  domes  of  marble,  every  one 
All  ambered  o'er  by  setting  sun;— 

Yes,  marble  realms,  that,  clear  and  high, 
So  float  in  the  purple-azure  sky, 

We  all  have  deemed  them,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Miraculous  isles  of  madrepore ; 


316  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Nor  marvel  made  that  hither  floods 
Bore  wonderful  forms  of  hero-gods. 

0  can  you  see,  as  spirit  sees, 
Yon  silvery  sheen  of  olive-trees  ? 

To  me  a  sound  of  murmuring  doves 
Comes  wandering  up  from  olive-groves, 

And  lingers  near  me,  while  I  dwell 
On  yonder  fair  field  of  asphodel, 

Half-lost  in  sultry  songs  of  bees, 
As,  touching  my  chaliced  anemones, 

1  prank  their  leaves  with  dusty  sheen 

To  show  where  the  golden  bees  have  been. 

On  granite  wall  I  paint  the  June 

With  emerald  grape  and  wild  festoon,— 

Its  chestnut  trees  with  open  palms 
Beseeching  the  sun  for  daily  alms, — 

In  sloping  valley,  veiled  with  vines, 
A  violet  path  beneath  the  pines, — 

The  way  one  goes  to  find  old  Eome, 
Its  far  away  sign  a  purple  dome. 

But  not  for  me  the  glittering  shrine; 
I  worship  my  God  in  the  Apennine ! 

To  all  save  those  of  artist  eyes, 
The  listeners  to  silent  symphonies, 

Only  a  cottage  small  is  mine, 
With  poppied  pasture,  sombre  pine. 

But  they  hear  anthems,  prayer,  and  bell, 
And  sometimes  they  hear  an  organ  swell; 

They  see  what  seems— so  saintly  fair— 
Madonna  herself  a- wandering  there, 

Bearing  baby  so  divine, 

They  speak  of  the  child  in  Palestine ! 

Yet  I,  who  threw  my  palette  down 
To  fight  on  the  walls  of  yonder  town, 

Know  them  for  wife  and  baby  mine, 
As,  weeping,  I  trace  them,  line  by  line, 
In  far-off  glen  of  Apennine! 


ED  WIN  PL  UMMEE.  .         317 


(Edwin 


Born  in  Pownal,  in  1825;^lied  in  Portland,  May  29,  1858.  Mr.  Plummer  was  a  printer 
by  trade,  and  became  publisher  of  the  N'trmai/  Advertiser.  In  1848,  in  company  with 
Edward  H.  Elwell,  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  he  started  the  Northern  Pio 
neer  in  Portland,  which,  after  a  short  but  successful  career,  was  united  with  the  Port 
land  Transcript.  Mr.  Plummer,  some  years  later,  established  the  Portland  Eclectic, 
which,  after  running  a  few  years,  was  also  merged  in  the  T)'<i»,script.  Mr.  Piuminer  was 
a  man  of  retined,  literary  taste,  and  had.  a  poetic  gift  of  a  high  order.  The  following 
poem  was  written  on  the  death  of  his  wife. 


MUSINGS  AMID  SCENES  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

In  Sabbath  silence,  Mary,  I  am  sitting 

In  the  deep  glade, 
Where,  when  our  mora  of  life  was  sweetly  flitting, 

We  often  stayed. 

Hill,  dell  and  dale  are  clad  in  wondrous  beauty — 

Soul  of  mine,  read 
In  nature's  volume  lessons  of  thy  duty, 

In  this  thy  need. 

Let  her  mild  unction  through  thy  depths  receding, 

Teach  thee  of  peace; 
And  Memory,  for  the  past  forever  pleading, 

Her  moan  shall  cease. 

Here  we  have  wandered,  Mary,  thy  heart  leaning 

Trustful  on  mine ; 
My  spirit  mingling,  and  in  rapture  gleaning 

Beauty  from  thine. 

Thou  wast  life's  blessing,  and  its  only  treasure ; 
When  by  thy  side, 

Our  hearts  beat  music  to  a  ceaseless  measure- 
Why  hast  thou  died  ? 

Time  has  gone  by,  and  still  my  soul  is  yearning 

For  look  and  tone 
And  melody  which  never  know  returning, — 

I  am  alone ! 

Blossoms  are  round  me,  and  the  birds  are  singing 

In  every  bough ; 
Their  tender  notes,  through  each  heart-fibre  ringing, 

Ask,  where  art  thou  ? 

In  saint-like  beauty,  Mary,  thou  art  dwelling 

In  fadeless  light; 
Thy  bosom  with  the  seraph's  anthem  swelling, 

In  wrapt  delight. 


318         •  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thy  soul  was  fed  on  music,  as  the  flowers 

On  dew-drops  clear; 
Now  symphonies  from  the  celestial  borers 

Enchain  thine  ear! 

Years  wane  like  stars !  soon  in  the  sacred  presence 

Of  Him  above, 
Who  of  all  spirit  is  the  fount  and  essence, 

We'll  meet  and  love. 


enrn 

E.  H.  Elwell  was  born  in  Portland.  Pec.  14,  1825.  He  gained  his  education  in  the  pub 
lic  schools  of  the  city,  and  in  1842  he  entered  the  office  of  the  Daily  American  as  an 
apprentice  to  the  printing  business.  He  renia'ined  there  until  the  paper  was  discontin 
ued,  a  period  of  over  two  years,  and  then  entered  the  office  of  the  dhrfstltin  Mirror  as  a 
journeyman,  and,  later,  was  foreman  of  the  office  of  the  p*ree-*nll  Baptist  Repository, 
published  at  Limerick.  He  graduated  from  the  printing  office  in  1K4G,  and  in  1848 
assumed  the  editorial  management  of  the  Portlnnri  Transcript,  which  position  he  has 
held  until  the  present  time,  being,  in  point  of  continuous  service,  the  oldest  editor  in  Ihe 
State.  But  little  of  Mr.  Flwell's  poetry  has  been  published,  though  he  has  written 
many  occasional  verses  which  have  given  pleasure  whenever  presented.  He  is  the  author 
of  "The  Boys  of  Thirty- Five,"  a  story  of  boy-life  in  Portland,  and  also  of  "Fraternity 
Papers,"  a  volume  of  essays  and  sketches,  published  in  1886.  He  is  well  known  as  a  lec 
turer  in  this  State,  having  for  several  years  devoted  a  portion  of  his  time  to  the  lecture 
field. 


BEAUTY  IN  USE. 
The  sun-dyed  leaves  that  roofed  the  grove 

Have  fallen  to  the  ground, 
Of  richest  hues  and  rare  design 

To  spread  a  carpet  round. 

How  softly  sped  each  loosened  leaf 

To  its  appointed  place ! 
There  to  complete  the  perfect  plan, 

And  add  to  beauty,  grace. 

Thus  those  who  hold  the  highest  place 

The  lowliest  use  may  serve, 
Nor  in  descending,  from  the  line 

Of  beauty  will  they  swerve. 


SONG. 

ADAPTED   FROM   AULD    LANG   SYNE. 

SUNG    AT   THE    CELEBRATION,    BY    THE    MAINE     HISTORICAL    SOCIETY,    OF 

THE    EIGHTY-FOURTH    BIRTHDAY    OF     PROFESSOR    ALPHEUS    S.  PACKARD, 

OF   BOWDOIN    COLLEGE,  DECEMBER  23,  1882.       (DIED  JULY  13,  1884.) 

All  honor  to  the  faithful  guide 

Of  generations  gone, 
Who  led  them  on  in  wisdom's  ways 

And  still  our  youth  leads  on. 


ED  WARD  HENR  Y  EL  WELL.  319 


CHO.     For  him  we  raise  the  song,  dear  friends, 

Of  Aulcl  Lang  Syne, 
For  him  we  take  the  loving  cup 
Of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Though  o'er  his  head  fourscore  and  four 

Have  rolled  the  years  gone  by, 
His  youth  from  him  has  never  fled, 

He  gives  old  age  the  lie. 
CHO.     For  him,  etc. 

We  have  grown  old  while  he  grows  young 

In  toil  for  others'  needs, 
No  snow  of  age  can  quench  the  fire 

That  burns  in  all  his  deeds. 
Cno.     For  him,  etc. 

Then  here 's  our  hands,  our  hearts  withal, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine, 
And  blessings  on  thy  head  we  call, 

For  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

CHO.     For  thee  we  raise  the  song,  old  friend, 

Of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
For  thee  we  take  the  loving  cup 
Of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

SUNRISE  AT  JACKSON,  N.  II. 
O'er  Doublehead  round  rolls  the  sun, 

And  darts  a  golden  ray 
Into  the  shades  of  night  below, 

Which  may  no  longer  stay. 

The  vale  with  morning  light  o'erflows, 

The  air  is  crisp  and  sharp, 
The  birds  are  piping  in  the  woods ; 

The  river,  like  a  harp, 

Its  silver  strings  in  sweet  accord, 

Adds  music  to  the  scene, 
While  wood,  and  field,  and  mountain  side, 

Are  robed  in  richest  green. 

On  Thorn's  broad  slope  the  shadows  play 

With  sunshine  hide-and-seek, 
And  in  the  rosy  light  afar 

Moat  lifts  its  lofty  peak. 


320  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  Eagle  cliff  frowns  o'er  the  vale, 

Old  "Iron"  answers  back, 
While  far  between  their  rugged  sides, 

His  head  in  cloudy  wrack, 

Bold  Washington  swells  o'er  the  scene, 

And  lesser  peaks  attend 
In  mantles  broad  of  forests  dark 

No  avalanche  can  rend. 

Blue  curls  the  smoke  from  wakening  fires, 

Far  in  the  vale  below, 
And  tinkling  cow-bells  music  make 

While  milkmaids  follow  slow. 

The  swallows  twitter  from  the  eaves, 
Loud  swells  the  tourist's  horn, 

As  with  the  early  dawn  he  goes 
To  climb  the  peaks  of  morn. 

Sweet  vale  of  verdant  meadowrs  broad, 

Where  Ellis  glides  so  swift, 
Along  whose  banks  the  angler  roams 

And  casts  his  lines  adrift,— 

Sweet  vale  of  peace,  around  whose  rim 

The  circling  mountains  swell, 
And  shut  out  all  the  busy  world. 

Where  toil  and  trouble  dwell— 

O  fain  would  I  still  linger  here 
Where  health  and  rest  are  found, 

Nor  seek  again  the  scene  of  toil 
That  makes  the  world  go  round. 


THE  FIRE  OF  APPLE-WOOD. 

In  the  somber  days  of  Autumn, 

When  from  off  the  wind-swept  trees 

Ripened  leaves  have  softly  fallen 
And  are  scattered  by  the  breeze, — 

When  amid  the  deepening  cloud-rifts 
Goes  the  sun  adown  the  West, 

With  far  lingering  rays  of  glory, 
As  from  regions  of  the  blest,— 


EDWARD  HENRY  EL  WELL.  321 


In  my  upper  chamber  seated 

By  the  fire  of  apple- wood, 
Thoughts  of  other  days  recall  me 

To  a  contemplative  mood. 

In  the  ruddy  blaze  before  me 
Tender  pictures  rise  and  glow, 

As  when  these  old  trees  first  blossomed 
In  the  years  so  long  ago. 

Rosy  girls  and  boys  together 

Then  beneath  these  branches  played; 
Many  a  ringing  shout  of  laughter 

Rose  like  music  in  their  shade. 

And  the  friend  again  sits  with  me, 
As  when  evening  shadows  fell, 

And  we  heard  amid  the  silence 
Song-birds  that  he  knew  so  well. 

And  I  see  the  piled  up  apples, 
On  the  green-sward  turning  dun, 

Golden-balls  and  bright  red  Nodheads, 
Glowing  in  the  setting  sun. 

Many  suns  have  since  descended, 
Many  sorrows,  too,  have  come; 

Widely  are  the  children  scattered, 
And  the  friend  long  since  gone  home. 

Low  burns  the  fire,  the  shades  of  Night 
Deepen  on  the  walls  around, 

While  the  old  familiar  voices 

Come  with  soft  and  solemn  sound. 

Glow  on !    Burn  on !  fitful  embers, 
Burn  and  blaze  for  me  once  more, 

For  I  fain,  the  past  recalling, 

Memory's  pictures  would  restore. 


THE  PAINTED  SANDS  OF  ALUM  BAY. 

ISLE    OF   WIGHT. 

Here  Nature,  lavish  of  her  dyes, 

The  painter's  art  doth  mock, 
And  with  the  ever  crumbling  sand, 

She  apes  the  solid  rock. 


322  THE  I ' OE TS  OF  MA  1NE. 

In  frolic  mood  she  heaps  on  high 
The  many  colored  sand, 

In  crags  and  rifts  and  pinnacles- 
Like  battlements  that  stand. 

How  rich  the  tints  that  warmly  stain 
The  steep  bank's  mellowed  height, 

As  if  the  rainbow  here  had  stood 
When  given  first  to  sight. 

The  white  cliffs  stretched  along  the  main 
In  pointed  Needles  stand, 

And  dark  blue  waves  with  foamy  crests 
Roll  in  upon  the  strand. 

O  beauteous  bay!     O  painted  sands! 

O  white  cliffs  towering  high, 
Long  in  memory's  sunniest  nook 

Your  image  fair  shall  lie. 


THE  OLD  HOME  BARN. 

ON   A  PAINTING   BY   HAKRY   BROWN. 

„     Yes, 'tis  the  same!    The  old  home  barn ! 

Scene  of  my  boyhood  plays ; 
How  many  memories,  sweet  and  sad, 
Rise  up  from  those  old  days. 

Through  the  open  door  again  I  ride 
On  hayrack  heaped  full  high, 

And  toss  to  the  mow  the  fragrant  store, 
Born  of  the  summer  sky. 

I  leap  from  the  beam,  and,  buried  deep, 
Emerge  with  laugh  and  shout; 

Hunt  in  the  hay  the  stolen  nest, 
The  hidden  eggs  seek  out. 

Old  Dobbin  neighs  from  behind  his  crib, 

I  hear  the  oxen's  tread, 
The  breath  of  the  kine  comes  sweet  to  me- 

But  where  is  the  colt  I  fed  ? 

On  the  floor  the  hens  are  scratching  still; 

The  stout  farm- wagon,  too,  is  there ; 
The  carryall  that  carried  all 

In  state  to  the  county  fair. 


CAROLINE  DANA   HOWE.  323 


How  rung  the  barn  with  merry  glee 
When  the  husking-bee  came  round, 

And  cheeks  were  aglow  with  blushes  deep, 
When  the  bright  red  ears  were  found. 

Through  the  open  door,  across  the  road, 

A  picture  framed  I  see, 
The  fields,  the  wood,  the  hills  afar, 

That  hid  the  world  from  me. 

What  lay  beyond  I  pondered  deep, 

A  realm  most  fair  it  seemed ; 
And  much  I  wished  to  tread  its  ways 

Of  which  I  long  had  dreamed. 

I've  wandered  far;  the  world  so  wide, 

That  still  has  lured  me  on, 
Ne'er  gave  to  me  a  scene  so  fair 

As  that  I  gaze  upon. 

The  old  home  barn,  in  boyhood's  days, 

A  pleasure  palace  reared; 
To-day  it  stands  a  temple  filled 

With  memories  e'er  endeared. 

O  Artist  of  the  magic  wand 

Which  thus  recalls  the  past, 
Your  work  shall  hang  in  memory's  hall 

So  long  as  life  shall  last. 


aroline 


Mrs.  C.  D.  Howe  was  born  in  the  beautiful,  historic  town  of  Fryeburg,  but  has  lived  in 
Portland  since  early  childhood.  Her  first  contributions  appeared  in  the  Portland  Tran 
script,  and  here,  as  well  as  in  other  leading  literary  publications,  her  work  has  long 
been  familiar.  Also,  on  important  public  occasions  mid  for  charitable  enterprises,  she 
has  furnished  poems  that  for  elegance  of  diction  and  pure  and  loftv  sentiment  might 
well  win  her  place  among  noteworthy  authors.  Some  years  ago  the  Massachusetts  Sab 
bath-school  Society  brought  out  a  volume  of  hers  of  200  pages,  carried  successfully 
through  several  editions.  In  1885,  another  book  from  her  pen,  under  title  of  "Ashes  for 
Flame  and  Other  Poems,"  was  published  in  Portland,  eliciting  favorable  notice  and  add 
ing  to  her  success  ^s  an  author.  In  the  department  of  song  it  may  with  truth  be  said 
that  no  living  writer  in  her  native  State  is  more  favorably  known  than  Mrs.  Howe.  More 
than  thirty  of  her  hymns  and  songs  have  been  set  to  music,  for  which  they  are  admirably 
adapted,  and  are  to  be.  found  in  church  collections  and  in  sheet  music  Among  these,  the 
popular  lyric,  "Leaf  by  Leaf  the  Roses  Fall,"  has  found  admirers  everywhere.  A  proper 
recognition  of  her  genius  is  shown  in  the  placing  of  her  name,  for  favorable  notice,  in 
the  "  Supplement  to  Appleton's  Cyclopaedia  of  American  Biography,"  now  in  process  of 
publication. 


324  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

THE  CITY  OF  MY  LOYE. 

The  heavens  unfold  to  Casco's  lifted  wave, 
Their  richest  gems,  theit  amethyst  and  gold, 

Where,  blazoned  like  some  grand  old  architrave, 
The  broad  horizon  bounds  its  realms  untold. 

Fair  sunlit  bay!  upon  thy  sheltered  breast, 

Whose  deeps  unknown  are  throbbing  evermore, 

Swift  sails  are  borne  like  white-winged  birds,  to  test 
Yon  broad  Atlantic  tides  from  shore  to  shore. 

O'erarched  with  glory  from  resplendent  skies, 
Munjoy  and  Bramhall,  like  twin  sentinels, 

May  overlook  our  growing  enterprise 
From  east  to  west,  and  hear  our  sweet-toned  bells. 

One  sunny  slope  is  fresh  with  mountain  air; 

And  one  lies  broad  to  islands  manifold, 
Where  Nature  hangs  her  summer  pictures  rare, 

Framed  round  in  sunshine  as  with  burnished  gold. 

But  Deering  woods,  of  which  our  Poet  sung, 
Hath  cultured  lawns  and  broad,  green  avenues, 

Where,  summer  eves,  glad  music-echoes  rung, 
And  fountains  played  and  scattered  mists  like  dews. 

O  City  of  my  love !     Like  some  fair  queen, 
Whose  kingdom  hath  a  beauty  all  its  own, 

Blue  skies,  blue  waves,  together  meet  serene 
As  canopy  and  footstool  for  thy  throne. 

Love  we  thy  name — thy  grand  old  elms — thy  soil, 

Thy  loyal  people  as  a  part  of  thee, 
Whether  we  meet  in  common  ways  of  toil, 

Or  where  proud  intellect  holds  high  degree. 

And  in  thy  homes,  fair  city  of  our  love, 

Some  dear  hearts  give  us  of  their  warmth  and  light, 

And  gentle  words  we  gather,  as  the  dove 

Brought  Hope's  leaf-message,  in  her  homeward  flight. 

Fair  be  thy  skies,  Star  City  of  the  east ! 

With  honors  crowned,  as  with  fine  jewels  set, 
Thy  beauty  still  undimmed,  thy  strength  increased, 

Look  onward  thou  to  heights  unmeasured  yet. 


CAROLINE  DANA  HOWE,  32 

BRIDAL  SONG. 

With  laces  soft  adorn  the  bride 

And  trailing  garments  white ; 
*Bring  creamy  roses,  pale  with  pride, 

Yet  fragrant  with  delight. 
With  notes  of  song  awake  the  morn ! 

With  smiles  enwreathe  the  hours, 
As  Love  goes  forth  with  hope  new-born, 

Upon  its  path  of  flowers. 

What  though  the  snows  lie  white  and  chill. 

Beneath  the  wintry  air  ? 
The  golden  sunshine  falleth  still 

In  blessings  everywhere. 
Love-like,  through  smiles,  it  tries  its  powers, 

And  snow-wreaths  vanish  fleet, 
While  violets  bloom,  and  all  young  flowers 

That  make  the  spring-time  sweet. 

Then  yield  thy  vows  in  faith,  sweet  bride, 

For  lo !  the  morn  breaks  clear, 
And  life  and  love  are  sanctified 

When  heart  to  heart  draws  near. 
What  though  pale  snows  may  sometimes  fall 

Along  thy  wedded  way  ? 
With  Love's  pure  sunshine  over  all, 

Thy  life  shall  bloom  like  May. 

THE  PHANTOM  CROSS. 
Our  footsteps  made  a  cross  to-day 

Along  the  chiseled  stone; 
Then  each  went  silent  on  his  way, 

Persistently  alone. 

But  there  it  lies— the  Phantom  Cross- 
Invisible  as  air, 

The  stamp  and  signet  of  a  loss 
That  ever  calls  for  prayer. 

Another  cross  rose  up  beside, 

Which,  through  the  vanished  years, 
Amid  the  wrecks  of  storm  and  tide, 

Had  sunk  too  deep  for  tears. 

Yet  on  my  path  its  shadow  lay 

Unvanquished  evermore, 
With  outstretched  arms  to  point  the  way 

Our  paths  diverged  before. 


326  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 

Twin  crosses  merged  this  hour  in  one, 

In  icy  tablets  set, 
Imprinted  on  the  cold  white  stone 

Where  we  as  strangers  met.     . 

Had  one  familiar  accent  breathed 
Amid  the  sunlight  warm, 

What  living  blossoms  had  enwreathed 
That  image  cruciform ! 

But  there  it  lies — the  Phantom  Cross— 
•    Invisible  as  air; 
The  stamp  and  signet  of  a  loss 
That  ever  calls  for  prayer. 

For  when  amidst  its  hopes  deferred 
My  soul  takes  note  of  loss, 

It  counts,  instead  of  one  kind  word, 
Pale  silence — and  a  cross. 


BIRTHPLACE  MEMORIES. 
Fair  village !  holding  firm  thy  place 

Among  all  unforgotten  things, 
Like  ancient  patriarchs,  proud  of  race, 

My  heart  Love's  claim  of  tenure  brings. 
The  soil  my  infant  footsteps  pressed 

Fain  would  I  seek,  as  far  1  roam, 
And  with  all  tender  thoughts  invest 

My  birthplace  and  ancestral  home. 

Full  oft,  by  quiet  memories  drawn, 

I  see  again  the  village  spires, 
The  cottage  and  familiar  lawn, 

The  maples  lit  by  sunset  tires, 
And,  pausing,  catch  some  answering  tone 

From  out  the  summers  long  ago, 
By  soft  winds  through  green  woodlands  blown, 

Where  sweet  birds  sang  in  branches  low. 

I  stand  on  yonder  bridge  again, 

With  old  Pine  Hill  uprising  near, 
And  broad  rich  intervales  of  grain 

On  either  hand,  in  sunlight  clear. 
While  here  old  Saco  throbs  and  thrills, 

And  rolls  its  waters  to  the  sea, 
From  where  far  crowns  of  snowy  hills 

Shine  down  in  regal  majesty. 


CAROLINE  DANA  HOWE.  327 


Here  lie  green  meadows  and  the  brook 

That  ever  challenged  fresh  delight, 
And  yonder  steeps,  whose  broad  outlook 

Saw  apple-orchards  blooming  white. 
And  here  the  grand  old  elms  I  trace, 

Where  men  of  noble  origin 
And  embryo  statesmen  of  the  race 

Walked  forth  with  ladies  fair  of  kin. 

And  one !  ah !  better  than  all  Fame, 

Her  life  of  unassuming  worth; 
With  reverence  I  write  her  name, 

The  name  she  gave  me  at  my  birth. 
And  so,  fair  Fryeburg !  hast  thou  place 

Among  all  unforgotteii  things, 
Like  ancient  patriarchs,  proud  of  race, 

My  heart  Love's  claim  of  tenure  brings. 

Peace  be  to  thee !    The  hearts  of  old 

That  thrilled  within  each  manly  breast, 
The  mothers  rich  in  Love's  pure  gold, 

Their  rank  on  our  young  minds  impressed. 
So  should  our  lives  clear  records  give, 

That  we,  with  every  passing  hour, 
May  learn  more  truly  how  to  live, 

And  claim  our  noble  birthright  dower. 


A  SUMMER  MORNING. 

A  bride,  newly  wakened  from  dreams  of  the  night, 
The  morning  comes  forth  in  her  vestments  of  light; 
With  glad  smiles  we  greet  her,  and  murmur  of  song, 
In  green  fields  where  daisies  and  buttercups  throng. 

The  clouds  like  white  sails,  drifting  silent  and  slow, 
The  voice  of  the  waterfall  murmuring  low, 
The  red-crested  lilies  and  wild  roses  fair, 
Give  tone  to  the  picture  and  sweets  to  the  air. 

Afar  through  green  meadows  the  brook  ripples  clear, 
We  scent  the  rich  breath  of  the  clover-blooms  near, 
And  watch  the  gay  leaves  with  the  wild  winds  at  play, 
Where  birds  in  the  branches  are  singing  all  day. 

We  join  in  the  chorus  with  blossom  and  song, 
That  rings  out  its  measure  in  days  that  are  long; 
In  dreams  turning  back  to  our  lost  youth  again, 
Through  years  intervening  of  passion  and  pain. 


328  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 

The  long  shadows  lessen  on  hillsides  aslope, 
As  morn  to  its  bridal  comes  jeweled  with  hope; 
While  memories  hidden  and  treasured  apart 
Shine  out  as  renewed  by  some  magical  art. 

O  summer !  glad  summer !    With  laughter  and  song, 
We  meet  thee,  and  greet  thee,  in  days  that  are  long, 
Rejoicing  forever  when  Love  shall  have  spun 
Her  green  web  of  glory  out  under  the  sun. 

MARGUERITE. 

Dainty  like  a  flower  and  sweet,  Lustre  from  the  past  it  gleams — 

We  must  have  our  darling's  name,  This  new  name  we  give  thee,  sweetr 

Wherein  Love  may  rest  its  claim,  All  life's  future  to  repeat, 

With  all  tenderness  replete.  Worthy  to  be  borne  by  queens 

Purest  pearl  with  heart  of  flame,  On  whose  brows  crown-jewels  meet, 

Flower-like  to  us  she  came,  Flower  of  innocence  it  means, 

And  we  call  her  Marguerite.  Keep  it  stainless,  Marguerite. 

Olden  legends  well  might  trace 

Flower-resemblance  in  thy  face, 
Though  no  golden  harps  repeat 

Hymns  to  our  new-born  so  sweet. 
But  where  virtues  yield  their  grace, 
Love  and  loveliness  embrace 
In  all  true  hearts,  Marguerite. 


(Rlizzbeih  H.  Suribtir. 

u^z?  x3u       &?3 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  R.  Dunbar  was  born  in  Union,  Me.,  Jan.  31,  1821.  Her  parents  soon 
after  removed  to  Hope,  and  the  most  of  her  early  years  were  spent  in  that  vicinity.  She 
was  the  fifth  child  of  Rev.  Samuel  and  Grace  Rich,  and  received  her  education,  in  part, 
at  East  Machias  Academy.  She  engaged  in  teaching  until  1842,  Avhen  she  married  Rev. 
Albert  Dunbar.  Her  writings  have  appeared  mostly  in  Z ion's  Adrocate,  Me..  The 
Watchman,  Boston,  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  and  different  publications  of  the 
American  Tract  Society,  and  some  of  them  have  been  copied  across  the  Atlantic.  Her 
poems  have  an  earnest  uplifting  and  strengthening  religious  influence. 


THE  GUEST. 

A  whisper  by  my  listening  soul  was  heard, 
A  gentle  footfall  echoed  in  its  halls, 

I  said,  O  welcome  guest,  come  enter  in, 

And  light  with  glory  all  these  dim,  gray  walls. 

Then  worldly  cares  departed,  shadows  fled, 
Grim  phantoms  left  no  trace,  and  all  the  crowd 

And  din  of  turbulent,  disappointed  hopes 
Were  hushed,  and  in  that  holy  Presence  bowed. 


ELIZABETH  11.  DUX  BAR.  329 


We  held  communion  sweet,  and  talked  of  all 
My  weakness,  and  His  strength,  my  sin,  His  love; 

My  tremblings  and  my  failures,  His  success; 
My  weary  wanderings,  and  His  home  above. 

His  words  of  tenderness  healed  all  my  wounds, 
His  look  of  lo.ve  dispelled  each  cloud  of  gloom, 

And  where  I  had  been  sitting  desolate, 
The  glory  of  His  presence  filled  the  room. 

"O  tarry  with  me  evermore,"  I  cried, 
"The  world  can  never  give  so  sweet  a  rest, 

And  I  am  fearful  of  its  darksome  ways, 
Abide,  and  I  shall  evermore  be  blest." 

He  said,  "  Thou  hast  received  me,  I  will  sup 
With  thee,  and  with  thee  my  abode  I'll  make, 

Love,  peace  and  joy  I  freely  bring  to  thee, 
And  all  thy  burdens  and  thy  sin  I  take." 

I  bowed  in  worship  humbly  at  His  feet, 
Deep  gratitude  o'erwhelmed  my  feeble  tongue, 

The  gifts  were  perfect — mercy  was  complete, 
And  newer  strains  of  joy  in  heaven  were  sung. 


TEACHINGS. 

I  've  watched  it  from  my  window — just  a  spray, 
With  feathery  leaflets  of  the  softest  green, 

Winds  eddy  near  it,  for  a  plea  to  stay, 
Lured  by  the  varying  glitter  of  its  sheen. 

Day  after  day  it  seems  a  living  joy; 

The  earth  hath  larger  gifts,  but  this,  so  sweet, 
Without  their  weariness,  or  their  alloy, 

Thrills  its  low  beauteous  life-song  at  my  feet. 

The  unfolding  leaves  rail  wear  a  heavenward  face, 
A  wondrous  wisdom  in  each  rootlet  lies, 

Transforming  from  dull  mold  this  beauty,  grace, 
To  rise  in  full  perfection  toward  the  skies. 

Its  life  is  full,  as  that  of  woodland  trees, 
Or  choicer  garden  flowers,  fragrant  or  fair. 

The  trembling  notes,  it  sings  with  every  breeze, 
Accord  with  strains  of  elm  and  mountain  air. 


23 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Though  in  the  storm  it  bows  its  head  in  tears, 
Before  the  sunshine  folds  the  clouds  away, 

It  gives  some  pitying  rainbow  all  its  fears, 
And  takes  the  jewels  scattered  on  her  way. 

This  mute,  yet  unsealed  eloquence,  I  hear, — 
The  eludings  read  within  these  gems  of  light, 

How  sorrow  may  resplendent  beauty  wear, 
As  patient  waiting  through  the  storm  and  night. 

O  that  my  soul  such  upward  look  might  gain, 
And  only  cling  to  earth,  that  it  may  rise, 

And  all  its  life-song  blend,  in  joy  or  pain, 
With  holier  utterances  beyond  the  skies. 


THE  STORM  ANGEL. 

Wearily  I  sat,  while  tracing, 

Where  the  brown  vines,  interlacing, 

Hid  within  their  woven  shelter  from  the  storm  a  wreath  of  snow, 
Just  where  silken  leaves  of  summer  waved  and  fluttered  months  ago, 

With  a  rhythm  soft  winds  know. 

'Twas  a  white  dove's  form  assuming, 

And  so  wistful  and  presuming 

It  had  nestled  there,  I  wondered  why  the  storm  this  refuge  sought, 
And,  with  its  cold  icy  fingers,  such  a  lifelike  thing  had  brought, 

Daintily  and  strangely  wrought. 

Surely  this  hath  some  sweet  mission, 
Said  my  heart  with  breathed  petition 

That  the  coming  and  the  greeting  might  a  speedy  good  fulfil, 
For  in  human  incompleteness  it  was  measuring  every  ill, 
Throbbing  in  its  weakness  still. 

Wild  the  storm-winds  moaned  and  drifted, 

But  this  look  my  soul  uplifted, 

Far  above  the  whirling  tempest,  though  .no  speech  or  voice  I  heard; 
Hidden  springs  were  thrilled  with  healing,  as  by  subtle  influence  stirred, 

At  some  potent  soothing  word. 

Thus,  I  knew  that  Love  had  spoken, 
In  this  beauteous  storm-wrought  token; 

That  from  out  each  gathering  darkness  some  white  wings  might  yet  appear, 
And  I  seemed  to  hear  "  Love  watcheth,  and  in  all  earth's  fainting  fear, 
Angel  helpers  will  be  near." 


EMMA  B.  L.  8.  DURHAM.  331 

Then  I  clasped,  with  full  confiding, 

Hopes  and  promises  abiding, 

And  I  would  the  loving  Father  with  a  firmer  faith  adore: — 
Love  that's  clinging,  ever  clinging,  when  life's  bitterest  storms  sweep  o'er 

I  will  doubt  no  more,  no  more. 

Never  came  the  sunlight  streaming, 
Or  through  summer  foliage  gleaming, 

Scattering  flecks  of  gold  and  amber,  in  its  shining  meshes  caught, 
That  such  bright  and  cheering  radiance  to  my  waiting  spirit  brought, 
And  such  humble  trust  had  sought. 

Still  the  storm- winds  moaned  and  drifted, 

But  my  soul  had  been  uplifted  : 

This  frail  visitant  was  swinging  gates  of  inner  vision  wide, 
And  in  tenderest  love  enfolded,  flowing  from  a  boundless  tide, 

This  dim  earth  seemed  glorified. 


mnm  §.  f!  J.  jjunlwm. 

Emma  B.  Dunham,  (Leoline,)  daughter  of  Joseph  Smith  and  Ann  Hoyt  Sargent,  was 
born  in  Minot,  Me.,  Aug.  25,  1825.  At  an  early  age  she  showed  great  taste  and  love  for 
the  beautiful  in  poetry,  and  wrote  her  first  poems  for  publication  before  she  was  six 
teen.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Portland  Transcript,  Press,  drgiis,  Roston 
Journal.  Ladies  Repository,  and  many  other  well-known  publications,  and  for  years  she 
has  been  a  regular  contributor  to  the  religious  papers  of  the  Universalist  denomination. 


THE  YOUNG  LAPP'S  CRADLE. 

Far  in  a  northern  country, 
Where  snows  forever  lie, 

And  strange,  fantastic  lightnings 
Are  quivering  in  the  sky, 

There  dwells  a  simple  people, 
Gentle  and  kind  of  heart, 

Whose  love  finds  its  expression 
In  one  sole  work  of  art. 

It  is  the  baby's  cradle, 

A  dainty  little  thing 
As  beautiful  and  charming 

As  violets  in  spring. 

To  form  this  tiny  marvel 

Beauty  and  grace  unite; 
*  T  is  lined,  as  warm  as  eider's  nest, 

With  rabbit's  fur  of  white. 


332  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

There  is  a  hood  protecting 
The  little  head  from  cold, 

Which  lies  all  snugly  sheltered 
Beneath  its  friendly  fold. 

Around  the  hood,  bright  garlands 
Of  colored  pearls  are  hung; 

And  copper  chains  or  tiny  links 
Of  silver  wire  are  strung. 

Rest  sweetly,  little  baby, 
Within  thy  pretty  bed, 

Lulled  by  the  tinkling  cadence 
Of  pearls  above  thy  head. 


UNSEEN  BUT  REAL. 

Shall  we  only  trust  what  the  ear  can  hear, 

What  the  hand  can  grasp,  and  the  eye  make  clear  ? 

Shall  the  dearest  hopes  of  the  human  heart 
In  our  inmost  being  have  no  part, 
Because  we  fail  to  understand 
The  movements  of  the  unseen  Hand? 

Shall  we  sadly  say  there  cannot  be 

A  land  somewhere  in  immensity 

Where  those  we  loved  wrho  have  gone  before, 

We  shall  meet  again  and  love  once  more, 

Because   unexplored  by  us  is  the  spot, 

And  those  who  have  journeyed  return  to  us  not  ? 

At  the  close  of  a  summer's  sultry  day, 
Walk  in  the  garden,  and  choose  the  way 
Down  where  the  honeysuckles  bud  and  blow 
They  may  teach  a  lesson  't  were  well  to  know. 

The  air  is  full  of  the  odors  rare, 
Exhaled  from  the  blossoms  clustered  there; 
Odors  we  never  can  touch  nor  see, 
Nor  solve  the  depth  of  their  mystery. 
To  weigh  their  fragrance,  again  and  again 
The  wisest  savants  have  tried  in  vain. 

And  yet  we  must  own  'tis  not  wholly  ideal; 
Unseen  and  unfelt,  we  acknowledge  it  real. 


ALB  EN  T  MO  ORE  LONG  LEY.  333 


OCTOBER. 

The  freshness  of  Spring  has  departed, 
The  languor  of  Summer  has  tied, 

October  holds  safe  in  her  keeping 

The  wealth  of  the  days  that  have  sped. 

In  the  place  of  the  mist  of  midsummer, 
Which  held  back  the  sun's  ardent  ray, 

Great  ridges  of  clouds  massed  in  ether 
Illume  and  make  perfect  the  day. 

The  leaves  of  the  forest,  like  heroes 
Who  feel  their  last  hours  drawing  nigh, 

Have  summoned  the  wealth  of  their  being, 
To  grandly  and  gallantly  die. 

The  cricket  shrills  forth  his  loud  chirping, 
The  wind  has  a  tremulous  sound; 

A  flock  of  dead  leaves  from  the  tree-top 
Comes  fluttering  down  to  the  ground. 

The  fields  and  the  meadow  have  yielded 

Their  harvest  of  hay  and  of  grain; 
The  orchards  are  fragrant  with  fruitage, 
Good  store  is  on  hill-side  and  plain. 

O  Spring-time !  so  full  of  thy  promise, 

O  Summer!  so  heavy  with  gain; 
Ye've  stored  in  the  garner  of  Autumn 

The  wealth  of  the  sun  and  the  rain. 

Haste,  Heart,  that  hast  felt  Spring's  assurance, 
Make  growth  in  the  summer  of  life, 

That  when  the  perfected  days  find  thee 
Thou  mayst  with  good  fruitage  be  rife. 


Albert  M.  Longley  was  born  in  Norridgewock,  in  1826,  and  died  in  that  town,  July  14. 
1850.  He  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  farmer,  and  is  represented  by  his  town's  people 
to  have  been  a  young  man  of  unblemished  character  and  a  Christian.  An  editor  for 
whose  paper  young  Longley  wrote  regarded  him  as  a  very  promising  poet.  Mr.  Longiey 
was  the  victim  of  consumption,  but  met  his  early  fate  with  composure  and  resignation. 

THE  KENNEBEC. 

Noble  river!  downward  rushing, 
From  thy  fount  exhaustless  gushing 
Onward  to  the  waving  sea; 


334  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Thou  dost  proudly,  unmolested, 
Lave  thy  banks  where  I  have  rested, 
Ever  unconiined  and  free. 

From  a  northern  source  thou  springest, 
And  a  cooling  fragrance  bringest 

From  the  forest  dark  and  deep; 
Where  the  giant  pine  is  growing, 
And  the  northern  breeze  is  blowing, 

Where  the  growling  panthers  leap. 

Mighty  river,  never  resting 
On  thy  way,  but  oft  contesting 

With  the  old  dun  rocks  that  rise 
From  thy  bed,  to  send  thee  roaring, 
Like  a  mighty  torrent  pouring, 

From  the  stormy,  stormy  skies. 

Oft  on  childish  sports  I've  fed  me, 
When  thy  quiet  waters  led  me 

On  its  smiling  banks  to  play; 
In  the  cheering  sunbeams'  lustre, 
Where  the  pebbles  thickly  cluster 

All  along  the  happy  way. 

Placid  river,  where  are  growing, 
In  the  summer-time,  and  showing 

Eyes  so  lovely,  bright  and  fair; 
Daisies  sweet  and  honeysuckle, 
While  a  curious,  hollow  chuckle 

Echoes  in  the  morning  air. 

'Tis  the  dove,  that  I've  heard  often, 
Laughing  in  the  rays  which  soften 

The  sweet  vales,  that  fan  the  tide; 
Sending  forth  its  notes  so  gaily, 
Which  Aurora  waketh  daily, 

With  its  orient  gates  op'cl  wide. 

At  Aurora's  first  appearing, 
While  no  other  one  was  hearing, 

Save  the  god  of  night  and  day, 
On  thy  shores  the  tall  oaks  under, 
Casting  worldly  thoughts  asunder — 

I  have  knelt  me  down  to  pray. 


ALBERT  MOORE  LONGLEY.  335 

Then  thy  glassy  bosom  sweeping, 
While  the  day-god's  rays  were  leaping 

O'er  the  steamer's  crowded  deck, 
I  have  sailed  with  fond  emotion, 
Gliding  toward  the  briny  ocean, 

Down  thee — lovely  Kennebec ! 

Here  at  Norridgewock,  the  red  man, 
With  the  Jesuit,  the  head-man, 

Worshiped  in  the  chapels  near; 
Till  his  white-faced  foe,  by  slaying 
Him  e'en  while  he  yet  was  praying, 

Ended  quickly  his  career. 

He  hath  left  you,  gentle  river; 
Chapels,  wigwams,  bow  and  quiver, 

Lie  with  his  own  bones  in  earth: 
History  wraps  the  pall  around  him, 
Round  his  name,  where  first  it  found  him, — 

Child  of  nature !  where  thy  birth  ? 

In  a  veil  of  mystery  shrouded 
Is  its  origin  beclouded, 

With  uncertainty  it  stands; 
Like  the  wand' ring  eagle  flying — 
(From  what  rest  we  know  not)  sighing 

For  its  mate  in  distant  lands. 

River,  river,  flow  on,  flow  011 — 
Northern  breezes  gently  blow  on 

Till  old  Time  shall  be  no  more; 
Still  the  music  of  thy  water, 
As  when  erst  mid  strife  and  slaughter, 

Sweeps  the  hills  and  valleys  o'er. 


THE  DROP  OF  HONEY. 

Sweet  flowers,  by  light-winged  zephyrs  softly  fanned, 
By  busy  insects,  humming  o'er  you,  scanned; 
In  forest  glade,  and  on  the  water  strand, 

In  loveliness  ye  bloom. 

Alas!  ye 're  faded  now;  for  Autumn's  breath 
Hath  swept  the  glade,  the  strand,  and  scattered  death 
On  every  hand,  and  with  its  frosty  teeth 

Hath  nipped  you  for  the  tomb. 


336  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

But  flowers,  your  sweets  ye've  left  behind,  to  cheer 
The  heart  and  feast  the  taste — we'd  shed  a  tear; 
For  like  the  good,  whose  good  works  still  live  here, 

Ye  fade— and  droop — and  die  : 

And  though  ye 're  gone,  there  yet  remains,  to  lure 
The  most  fastidious,  a  liquid  pure, 
Which  bursts  in  plenty  forth,  so  sweet,  from  your 

Ambrosial  nectary. 

From  out  the  fractured  cell,  the  honey-drop 
Was  gushing  clear,  and  I  essayed  to  stop 
Its  downward  course;  so  with' a  hasty  scoop 

I  caught  the  limpid  store : 
But,  O  within  that  drop  there  lurked,  unseen, 
A  sting  acute,  and  poisonous;  which  e'en 
Did  pierce  my  mouth;  the  smart  how  keen! 

My  soul  cried  out — no  more! 

Still  to  my  smarting  palate  it  would  cling, 
As  'twere  exulting  in  the  pain  't could  bring; 
Till  gladly  I  drew  forth  the  ruthless  thing, 

And  ever  since  that  day, 
Careful  am  I,  when  I  do  honey  eat, 
To  know  if  it  has  not  a  sting,  to  cheat 
Me  of  the  joy  that 's  oft  so  passing  sweet, 

And  dash  the  cup  away. 

MORAL. 

Examine  well  the  honey  ere  you  taste ; 
The  sweetest  pleasures  here,  if  sought  in  haste, 
May  give  you  pain — nay,  they  will  often  bring, 
Unseen  by  careless  eyes,  a  deadly  sting. 


Thaddeus  Pomeroy  Cressey  was  born  Feb.  23, 1826,  on  Flaggy  Meadow  Road,  in  Gorham, 
Me.  He  received  a  common-school  education  until  his  fourteenth  year,  when  he  entered 
Gorham  Academy,  where  he  completed  an  academic  course.  He  worked  on  his  father's 
farm  while  pursuing  his  studies.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  left  his  native  town  and 
went  to  Saco,  Me.,  where  he  served  three  years  in  the  capacity  of  clerk  in  a  store.  He 
then  engaged  in  mercantile  business  in  Dover,  N.  H.,  where  he  now  resides.  Many  of 
his  poems  have  been  published  in  the  newspapers.  He  has  a  local  reputation. 


MORNING  ON  LAKE  WINNIPISEOGEE. 
I  saw  incoming  morn  with  silent  tread 

Enter  the  azure  portals  of  the  east, 
",The  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit"  wide  out-spread 

With  floods  of  golden  light  upon  its  breast; 
And  from  the  fleeting  shades  of  parting  night 

Wake  with  the  flush  of  blushing  beauty  bright. 


THADDEUS  POMEROY  CRESSET,  337 


I  saw  the  orient  sun  paint  varied  hues 

Of  gold  and  crimson  on  the  horizon's  rim; 
Stars  paled  their  light,  as  gleam  on  gleam  arose 

And  pierced  the  caverns  now  no  longer  dim, 
While  in  the  sunlight  transient  visions  fade 
That  flecked  with  broken  light  the  mountain  glade. 

The  dewy  mists,  that  bathed  the  mountain's  brow, 
Had  kissed  with  lingering  lips  the  flower-crowned  height, 

Hung  diamond  drops  upon  each  leafy  bough, 
And,  when  the  sunbeams  met  departed  night, 

Then  slowly  rising  into  mist-cloud  flake, 

They  swept  their  shadows  o'er  the  crystal  lake. 

Then  suddenly  from  out  the  fleecy  cloud, 

A  stately  eagle  rose  with  out-spread  wing, 
And  floated  in  the  sunlight,  calm  and  proud, 

His  shrill-toned  voice  made  echoing  mountains  ring; 
A  thousand  voices  woke  the  sleeping  hills, 
And  gaily  rang  the  lucid  crystal  rills. 

Among  the  hills  and  vales  and  islands  green, 
Were  waving  ferns  beneath  the  arching  trees, 

And  shafts  of  glimmering  light,  the  hills  between, 
And  woodland  choirs  breathing  sweet  melodies; 

I  heard  a  voice  in  every  fountain's  flow, 

All  things  were  fair  around,  above,  below. 


A  QUAKER  CHURCH. 
Eastward  from  my  window  on  the  hillside, 

A  Quaker  church,  with  architecture  plain, 
Stands  clad  in  unpretentious  drab  outside, 

With  windows  small  and  glass  without  a  stain. 

No  steeple  pointing  from  its  roof  above, 
To  show  the  worshipers  the  way  to  heaven, 

Believing,  if  they  live  in  peace  and  love, 
That  here  below  a  rich  reward  is  given. 

No  pulpit  to  adorn  its  sacred  walls, 
Or  organ  notes,  or  tuneful  voices  raise, 

But,  listening  to  the  inward  voice  that  calls, 
Their  very  silence  is  a  song  of  praise. 

They  find,  when  sorrows  steal  upon  their  way, 
A  sweet  release  within  that  sacred  place; 

Their  burdened  spirits  there  can  watch  and  pray, 
And  build  within  their  souls  a  throne  of  grace. 


338  THE  PORTS  OF  MAINE. 

There,  without  words,  their  worship  pure  has  flown, 
And  error's  monstrous  shape  from  earth  is  driven; 

While  trusting  safely  in  the  great  unknown, 
A  living  truth  will  make  this  world  a  heaven. 

The  progress  their  expanded  souls  have  made 
In  their  maturer  years  and  bolder  right, 

Each  gleam  of  brightness  coming  to  their  aid 
Will  guide  their  footsteps  in  the  path  of  right. 

These  sainted  witnesses  to  brighter  skies — 

When  parting  with  this  world  of  endless  strife — 

Bear  to  the  sunny  dawn  of  paradise 
The  fruitful  blossoms  of  an  earnest  life. 


BALD  HEAD  CLIFF. 
The  lone  dark  rock  stands  out  against  the  sky; 

High  o'er  its  summit  white- winged  sea  birds  sail, 
And  fleck  the  azure  ether  as  they  fly 

Above  the  splendor  of  the  mist-cloud  veil. 

I've  watched  the  weird,  wild  waves  on  swelling  tide, 
That  through  the  long  perpetual  ages 

Have  climbed  high  up  the  lone  cliff's  rugged  side, 
And  carved  thereon  memorial  pages. 

I've  seen  the  white-plumed  waves  along  the  shore, 
Like  warriors  brave,  advancing  in  a  line, 

Dash  high  against  the  cliff  with  clash  and. roar, 
Though  ineffectual  on  the  cliff's  incline. 

So  mid  the  restless  waves  of  passion  braving, 
Calm-fronted,  staunch,  defiant  may  we  be, 

And  meet  the  foe's  onset  with  banners  waving, 
Unyielding,  conquering,  absolutely  free. 


Charles  Greene  Came  was  born  in  Buxton,  Me.,  Sept.  26,  1826,  and  died  Jan.  16,  1879. 
Graduated  at  Yale  in  1849.  Studied  law  in  Portland,  and  admitted  to  bar  in  1852.  Prac 
ticed  in  Rpckland  and  Portland.  Was  editor  of  Portland  Advertiser.  Was  elected  mem 
ber  of  Maine  House  of  Representatives,  February,  1854,  and  re-elected  September  of  same 
year.  In  May,  1857,  became  editorial  writer  on  Boston  Journal,  where  he  remained  till 
his  death.  Married,  September,  1855,  Miss  Sarah  M.  Lewis,  of  New  Haven. 

THE  BOYS  OF  OLD  BUXTON. 

EXTRACT  FROM  CENTENNIAL,  POEM. 

The  Boys,— the  boys  of  old  Buxton,  how  stood  they  the  fight  ? 
As  firm,  as  grand,  I  ween,  as  their  Fathers  on  Bunker's  height; 


TRUMAN  SUMMERFIELD  PERRY.  339 

Prompt  wheeling  into  line  with  the  mighty  loyal  host, 

They  fought  their  battle  through,  nor  stopped  to  count  the  cost. 

The  fainting  march,  the  deadly  trench,  or  whizzing  shell, 
Pestiferous  breath  of  the  hospital,  or  rebel  prison-hell, 
Wounds,  disease,  or  death,  they  met  them  all  to  save 
An  empire  without  a  king,  a  land  without  a  slave. 

So  shall  it  ever  be;  though  the  blessed  flag  advance, 

Till  welcomed  o'er  the  Continent,  its  stars  in  glory  glance, 

Our  little  town,  a  speck  on  the  nation's  boundless  plains, 

With  her  single  drop  of  blood  coursing  through  the  nation's  veins, 

As  vital  as  any  other,  as  near  the  central  heart, 

With  the  union  e'er  shall  stand,  with  that  alone  depart. 

So  while  the  sun  smiles  on  her,  or  Saco  rolls  its  waters  down, 

Through  all,  aye,  all  the  ages,  God  bless  our  Native  Town! 


jjrttman  §nmmerffiM  §errg. 

Rev.  T.  S.  Perry  was  born  in  Oxford,  Me.,  Dec.  20,  1826.  In  boyhood,  he  attended  pub 
lic  and  high  schools,  fitting  for  college  mostly  at  North  Bridgton  Academy.  He  is  a 
graduate  of  Bowdoin.  class  of  1850,  of  which  Senator  W.  P.  Frye,  Gen.  Oliver  O.  How 
ard,  Prof.  C.  C.  Everett,  of  Harvard,  Prof  John  S.  Sewall,  of  Bangor  Theological  Semi 
nary,  Judge  Gardiner,  of  Massachusetts,  and  other  men  of  note,  were  members.  Before 
graduation,  Mr.  Perry  became  a  sufferer  from  a  weakness  of  the  optic  nerve;  for  about 
fifteen  years  was  unable  to  use  his  eyes  at  all  for  reading  or  study.  He  wrote  considera 
ble  for  publication,  however,  using  a  writing  machine  made  from  a  description  of  the  one 
employed  by  Prescott,  the  historian.  For  several  years  he  was  engaged  in  business,  but 
in  1861  he  received  an  appointment  as  one  of  the  clerks  of  the  U.  S.  Senate,  being  in 
Washington  during  almost  all  the  time  of  the  Civil  War.  While  thus  engaged,  he 
acted  as  correspondent  of  the  Portland  Press,  Portland  Transcript,  and  other  papers, 
besides  furnishing  SOIUB  articles  for  the  W'tshinqton  C/ironirte,  and  doing  some  general 
literary  work.  In  1866  he  resigned  on  account  of  impaired  health,  and  lived  on  a  farm 
two  or  three  years.  His  health  and  eyesight  improving,  he  was  ordained  as  a  Congrega 
tional  clergyman,  1873.  He  has  since  prosecuted  the  work  of  the  ministry,  principally  at 
Cumberland.  Me.,  where  he  labored  twelve  years,  and  at  Limerick,  Me.,  where  lie  is  no\v 
pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church.  He  still  writes,  as  he  has  usually  done,  rather  by 
way  of  recreation  than  serious  work,  furnishing  occasional  articles  for  the  Advance,  Con- 
gregationalist  and  other  journals.  In  1854  he  was  married  to  Miss  Elizabeth  G.  Hale,  of 
Bridgton,  Me. 

SILVER. 

Five  and  twenty  years  have  sped, 
Gentle  heart,  since  we  were  wed ! 
Some  in  shade,  but  more  in  light, 
Some  bedimmed,  but  more  bedight; 
Five  and  twenty  years  have  run 
Since  the  day  that  made  us  one. 

I  will  weave  a  simple  lay, 
Wine  mine,  for  thee  to-day; 
Glad  and  thankful  shall  it  be, 


340  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Time  has  touched  us  sparingly ; 
He  has  stolen  away  our  youth, 
He  has  left  us  love  and  truth. 

Loyal  faith  and  tender  love, 
Fortune's  golden  gifts  above, 
More  than  praise  of  sweetest  tongue, 
More  than  plaudits  said  or  sung; 
These  have  made  us  rich  alway, 
These  our  treasures  are  to-day. 

Blessings  on  thee,  gentle  wife, 
Who  hast  crowned  with  love  my  life, 
Shared  each  sorrow  and  annoy, 
Doubled  for  me  every  joy, 
Sweetness  of  the  sweet  lang  syne, 
Blessings  on  thee,  heart  of  mine. 

Unto  Him  whose  will  benign 
Made  thee  mine,  and  made  me  thine, 
Who  has  filled  our  lot  with  weal, 
Made  us  loving,  kept  us  leal, 
Kindly  led  us  on  our  way, 
Render  we  our  thanks  to-day. 

Thanks  to  God  for  years  gone  by, 
For  these  moments  now  that  fly; 
May  He  guide  us  hand  in  hand, 
Journeying  towa'rd  the  better  land, 
Keep  us  still  in  trust  and  love, — 
Bring  us  to  the  home  above. 


ANOTHER  YEAR. 

Fleeting  winter  days,  or  dark,  or  halcyon, 

Once  again  are  swiftly  gliding  by, 
Great  Orion,  with  his  flaming  falchion, 

Marches,  warder  of  the  midnight  sky. 

Summer  blossoms,  dead  and  buried  lying, 
Bloom  again  in  spectral  flowers  of  frost; 

And  the  last  sigh  of  the  Old  Year  dying, 
In  the  glad  hail  of  the  New  is  lost. 

Still  the  New  Year  comes  with  hopeful  greeting, 
Gallant  air,  and  promise  frank  and  brave; 

Still  the  Old  Year,  like  a  phantom  fleeting, 
Glides  regretful  to  his  snowy  grave. 


TRUMAN  SUMMERFIELD  PERRY.  341 


Hoary  Time  is  born  anew  in  dying, 
One  hope  brightens  as  another  pales; 

Still  our  ships  come  homeward  gaily  hying 
With  the  sunshine  on  their  gleaming  sails. 

Glad  we  hail  them,  though  their  keels  may  never 
Make  a  crease  upon  the  yellow  sand ; 

Though  these  fairy  argosies  may  never 
Bring  their  fairy  treasures  to  the  land. 

Sink  they  in  the  ocean  as  they  leave  us  ? 

Or  drop  anchor  on  the  farther  shore  ? 
Many  a  joy  of  which  the  years  bereave  us 

Shall  we  find  when  years  shall  be  no  more  ? 

Hope  is  very  fair;  and  barren,  nathless, 

As  the  gay  mirage's  grove  of  palm. 
Is  the  future  to  all  promise  faithless, 

Ever  bringing  to  us  gall  for  balm  ? 

God  forbid!    It  glads  Him  not  to  grieve  us; 

God  forbid !    He  makes  us  not  in  vain; 
Earthly  hopes  may  wither,  joys  may  leave  us, 

But  His  mercy  ever  shall  remain. 

Not  in  vain,  though  ever  fleet  and  fleeter, 
Sad  and  sadder,  years  should  come  and  go, 

If  the  heart  be  purer  still  and  sweeter, 
If  the  work  of  life  completer  grow, 

While  we  hold  these  toilsome  ways  of  duty, 
Comes  to  cheer  us  many  a  sweet- voiced  bird 

From  that  wondrous  land  whose  joy  and  beauty 
Eye  hath  never  seen  nor" ear  hath  heard. 

Far  beyond  the  desert's  mocking  glamour 

Green  o'ases  offer  cheer  and  rest; 
Far  beyond  the  ocean's  angry  clamor 

Brightly  bask  the  islands  of  the  blest. 

Brave  and  patient,  then,  be  our  endeavor, 
Strong  our  hearts  with  courage,  calm  and  high; 

Still  expectant  of  the  glad  Forever, 
Seeking  still  the  Land  beyond  the  sky. 


SPRING. 

Through  and  through  grim  Winter's  mail  of  azure 
Smite  the  flaming  arrows  of  the  Sun; 

All  his  flushing  arms  and  gleaming  treasure 
Fall  a  spoil  to  hot  Hyperion. 


342  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Come,  O  Spring,  for  bruit  of  storm  is  dying, 
And  the  sea  is  growing  bright  and  calm; 

O'er  its  glancing  waves  with  footsteps  flying 
Hither  hasten  from  thy  isles  of  balm. 

Smile,  and  skies  will  lose  their  wintry  sadness; 

Breathe,  and  all  the  swelling  buds  will  break; 
Laugh,  and  all  the  streams  will  leap  for  gladness; 

Come  and  kiss  the  dreaming  earth  awake. 

All  the  birds  will  pour  to  greet  thy  coming 
Blithest  carol,  gladdest  roundelay; 

And  the  honey-bee  with  drowsy  humming 
Soothe  thine  ear  when  thou  art  tired  of  play. 

Field  and  wood  will  gaily  don  to  greet  thee 
Kirtle  fair,  and  robe  of  golden  sheen, 

All  the  flowers  will  bloom  and  blush  to  meet  thee, 
Crowning  thee  with  beauty  like  a  queen. 

Come,  as  when  of  old  thy  coming  thrilled  us, 
Bring  the  days  of  gladness  back  to  men; 

Many  winters  now,  alas,  have  chilled  us — 
Let  us  taste  the  wine  of  youth  again. 

Bring  us  with  thy  sweet  and  gentle  presence 
Hope  and  token  of  that  land  of  light, 

Land  of  perfect  peace  and  endless  pleasance,   . 
Where  the  flowers  bloom,  but  never  blight. 


jijanson 

Hanson  IX  White,  eldest  son  of  Peter  and  Huldah  (Hanson)  White,  was  born  at  Wind- 
ham  Hill,  Me.,  sometime  in  the  year  1811.  and  was  educated  at  the  common  schools  in 
Windham,  and  Gorham  Academy.  He  made  literature  a  profession.  Avriting  for  various 
publications — the  Boston  Olive  Kran,ch  ami  Port/and  Transcript  among  others — both 
in  prose  and  verse,  making  a  specialty  of  agriculture,  criticisms  and  short  sketches.  We 
are  told  he  was  rather  eccentric,  and  for  the  most  part  his  life  was  quiet  and  isolated. 
Mr.  White  enlisted  at  Portland  in  the  summer  of  1861,  and  since  then  none  in  his  native 
town  have  known  of  his  whereabouts. 


PATIENTLY  WAIT. 
If  the  world  looks  coldly  on  thee — 

If  by  loved  ones  thou'rt  forsaken, 
Be  thou  firm  as  oak,  rock-rooted, 

Which  no  blight  or  blast  hath  shaken; 
Still  around  thee  glows  God's  sunlight — 

Still  upon  thee  falls  his  shower; 
Wait  with  courage — wait  with  patience — 

Wait  the  coming  of  thy  hour. 


HANSON  DERBY  WHITE.  34* 

Stand  erect  with  heart  unshrinking, 

Looking  trustfully  on  high ; 
Let  not  scowls  or  frowns  depress  thee, 

But,  unflinching,  pass  them  by. 
Words  of  bitter  condemnation, 

It  may  be  thy  lot  to  hear; 
Foul  reproaches, — keen  aspersions, 

Breathed,  alas !  by  lips  most  dear. 

But  heed  not  the  defamation, — 

Heed  thou  not  the  deaf'ning  clamor; 
Wisdom  mocks  at  folly's  madness, 

As  right  reason  mocks  at  glamour. 
Slander's  tongue  is  oft  self-palsied — 

Groundless  rumor  aye  recoils, 
While  the  upright  and  the  righteous 

In  life's  battle  win  the  spoils. 

When  the  evil  days  have  vanished — 

When  the  storm  has  spent  its  ire, 
Thou,  unscathed,  shall  stand  triumphant 

Purified  like  gold  by  fire. 
Patient  waiters  are  no  losers, 

Even  when  misfortunes  lower; 
Wait  with  courage — wait  with  patience, 

For  the  coming  of  thy  hour. 


THE  UNWILLING  BRIDE. 

"In  earlier  days,  and  fairer  fortunes,  she  had  plighted  her  troth  to  a  peasant  with 
whom  the  May-day  of  her  life  had  been  happily  passed  on  the  vine-hung  shores  of  the 
sunny  Rhine;  but  a  cloud  brooded  portentously  over  her  future,  and  her  lover  was  taken 
from  her  presence  to  bear  arms  in  nis  country's  defence.  Her  parents  favored  the  suit 
of  a  wealthy  noble,  who,  attracted  by  her  uncommon  loveliness,  pressed  his  addresses^ 
and,  by  the  authoritative  assistance  of  her  sordid  relatives,  won,  at  last,  her  hand  She 
married  him,  but  the  leaf  that  was  green  at  her  bridal  fell  upon  her  tomb" — From  an 
unpublished  MSS. 

I  have  told  him  that  I  loved  him, 

And  it  cannot  be  unsaid ; 
Yet  my  speech  shall  never  grieve  them, 

Though  my  heart  he  cannot  wed : 
I  have  breathed  the  vow  they  bade  me— 

And  he  dreams  that  he  is  blessed— 
Thus  he  said  as  he  embraced  me, 

And  his  lips  to  mine  were  pressed. 


344  THE  I'OETti  OF  MAINE. 


They  have  torn  me  from  my  idol, 

They  have  changed  my  heart  to  stone, 
But  the  grief  that  wrings  my  bosom 

I  must  utter  unto  none. 
He  hath  wealth  and  worldly  honor, 

And  his  name  is  one  of  pride, 
Yet  my  heart  is  now  another's — 

I  can  never  be  his  bride. 

But  I've  breathed  the  fatal  promise — 

On  my  hand  I  wear  his  ring, — 
1 T  is  a  gem  of  priceless  value, 

But  it  hath  an  adder's  sting. 
What,  alas !  are  rank  and  station ! 

Can  they  soothe  a  breaking  heart  ? 
Were  my  home  a  prince's  palace, 

'T  would  not  cure  my  bosom's  smart. 
Still  my  destiny  I  cannot, 

I  may  not  seek  to  change; 
Though  from  him  my  soul  adoreth 

My  love  they'll  ne'er  estrange. 

When  the  red  leaf  in  the  forest 

Tells  of  Autumn's  merry  times ; 
When  I  list  in  thoughtful  sadness, 

To  my  native  village  chimes — 
When  the  lover's  star  is  beaming 

In  the  deep  sky  clear  and  gray — 
Ah  !  my  thoughts  must  sadly  wander 

With  my  heart— away— away ! 

And  he  will  sit  beside  me! 

He  will  mark  my  tearful  eye ! 
He  will  see  my  bosom  tremble ! 

He  will  hear  love's  smothered  sigh! 
But  he  ne'er  must  know  the  fountain 

Whence  my  wordless  sorrows  flow; 
I  must  breathe  my  grief  to  110  one — 

I  must  bear  alone  my  woe. 

But  I  've  told  him  that  I  loved  him, 

And  it  cannot  be  unsaid; 
My  speech  shall  never  grieve  them, 

Though  my  heart  he  cannot  wed : 
I  have  breathed  the  vow  they  bade  me— 

And  he  dreams  that  he  is  blessed — 
Thus  he  said  when  he  embraced  me, 

And  his  lips  to  mine  were  pressed. 


CLARA  M.  A.  TOWLE  SHORES.  345 


Mrs.  C  M.  A.  T.  Shores  was  born  in  Parsonfield,  Aug.  1,  1827,  her  mother  being  the 
daughter  of  Samuel  Kuapp,  one  of  the  first  settlers  of  the  town,  and  a  writer  of  poetry 
herself,  creditable  pieces  having  been  found  among  her  papers  after  her  death,  showing 
much  delicacy  of  thought  and  expression  Clara,  began  writing  rhymes  when  only  eight 
years  of  age,  but  was  so  painfully  diffident  she  carefully  concealed  them.  Her  father, 
though  a  farmer,  was  passionately  fond  of  poetry,  and  often  read  aloud  to  his  family  in 
the  evening,  from  the  pages  of  Scott  and  Byron.  Clara  attended  the  academies  in  Effing- 
ham  and  New  Hampton,  N.  H..  in  her  girlhood,  and  graduated  from  the  latter  in  1849. 
Several  of  her  compositions  were  published  about  this  time.  Subsequently  she  becamea 
teacher,  and,  Aug.  2?,  1852,  she  was  married  to  J.  A.  Shores,  a  graduate  of  Dartmouth 
College,  class  of  1851.  .Mrs.  Shores  has  written  under  various  fictitious  names— "  Clara," 
"Annette,"  ''Melissa,"  "Clara  Parsons,"  an. I  some  times  under  various  initials.  She 
now  resides  at  West  Bridge  water,  Mass.  Mrs.  Shores  has  taught  in  the  Ladies  Semi 
nary  at  Tilfon.  N.  H.,  in  the  Seminary  at  Parsonsfield,  Me.,  and  in  the  Leland  and  Gray 
Institute  at  Townsend,  Vt.  Her  husband  was  Principal  of  the  High  Schools  in  Ipswich 
and  Haverhill,  Mass.,  and  of  the  Connecticut  Literary  Institute,  Suffield,  Conn.,  until 
1880,  when  he  left  teaching. 


TO  AN  INFIDEL. 
As  meet  two  ships  upon  the  wave, 

Who  give  each  other  hailing, 
So  met  our  souls  for  one  brief  hour, 

O'er  life's  wide  ocean  sailing. 

I  answered  to  the  "Whither  bound ?" 
"To  endless  life  I'm  steering, 

Where  sin  is  not,  nor  pain,  nor  tears, — 
Heaven  is  the  port  I'm  nearing." 

You  answered,  "I  've  no  port  in  view, 

I  go  by  Fate's  ordaining, 
At  last  to  sink  beneath  the  waves; 

And  I  '11  make  no  complaining." 

"But  have  you  not  a  chart  on  board, 
Nor  Pilot  for  your  guiding? 

How  know  you  where  those  waters  wild 
Are  rocks  and  quicksands  hiding?'' 

"Law,  stern,  unchanging,  ruleth  all, 
What  use  its  power  defying  ? 

Reason  my  pilot  is,  and  chart, 
I'm  on  myself  relying." 

"  My  Bible  is  my  trusty  chart, 
I'm  safe  its  precepts  heeding; 

And  Jesus  is  my  Pilot  strong, 
His  help  I'm  ever  needing. 

"And  when  the  winds  and  storms  awake, 

With  black  clouds  me  enfolding, 
I  have  an  anchor  steadfast,  sure, 

My  bark  in  safety  holding." 
84 


346  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"There  are  no  clouds,  nor  winds,  nor  storms, 

We're  only,  only  dreaming; 
What  matters  how  our  life  we  pass, 

Not  real  'tis,  but  seeming; 

"And  1  have  peace  upon  my  way, 

Nor  fear,  myself  resigning 
To  nature's  laws,  trusting  to  Fate, 

I  drift  without  repining." 

"But  /have  more  than  peace,  I've  joy, 

And  faith,  and  hope  ascending, 
Above,  beyond  this  transient  life, 

To  that  which  is  unending. 

"O  leave  your  cold,  harsh,  cruel  creed, 

Your  soul  it  is  deceiving; 
'  Become  a  little  child,'  and  be 

Not  faithless,  but  BELIEVING." 

TO  DIl.   A\D  MRS.  MOSES  SWEAT,  OF  PARSONSFIELD, 

ON    THK    OKATiF   OF    THEIR    YOUNGEST    SON.  JOHN   B.,   A  BROTHER  OF   1IO.V. 
L.    D.    M.    SWEAT,    OF   PORTLAND. 

From  stricken  hearts  your  bitter  tears  are  falling, 
Father  and  mother,  o'er  your  loved  one's  grave; 

And  many  friends  join  in  your  sad  bewailing, 
For  him  whom  love  the  fondest  could  not  save. 

He,  whose  young  life  was  full  of  future  promise, 
Whose  kind  love  cheered  your  now  declining  day, 

From  all  his  noble  aims  and  hopes  so  buoyant 
And  life  of  usefulness,— has  passed  away. 

The  wintry  winds  o'er  his  dear  grave  are  sighing, 

And  earth  so  desolate— her  flowers  all  gone— 
Seems  like  your  hearts  in  their  lone  winter  lying, 

While  o'er  your  withered  hopes  grief  makes  its  moan. 

Yet,  but  "a  little  while,"  and  earth,  rejoicing, 
Shall  find  again  her  leaves  and  beauteous  bloom, 

And  ye,  O  stricken  ones !  shall  change  your  weeping 
For  songs  of  joy  beyond  the  graveyard  gloom. 

Those  words  which  his  loved  voice  breathed  forth  in  dying,— 

"Heaven,  O  heaven" — may  they  evermore 
Echo  within  your  minds,  your  thoughts  uplifting 

To  that  bright  land  where  he  has  gone  before. 


HANNAH  A  UG USTA  MOORE.  347 

He  joins  the  song  which  the  redeemed  are  singing: 
He  knows  the  joys  which  mortals  may  not  know, 

Perchance  with  angel-bands  his  glad  flight  winging, 
He  visits  scenes  which  once  he  loved  below. 

Is  not  his  ransomed  spirit  sometimes  whispering: 

"Bear  meekly  on  a  little  while,  and  then 
In  a  new  home,  our  sorrows  all  forgetting, 

We'll  meet  once  more  and  never  part  again." 


This  author  was  born  in  Wiscasset,  March  15,  1827  or  '28.  Her  father  was  Herbert 
Thorndike  Moore,  of  New  York  City,  son  of  Col.  Herbert  Moore,  of  Waterville,  Me.  N. 
P.  Willis  introduced  Miss  Moore  to  the  literary  world,  and  her  poems  found  favor  with 
Longfellow.  Bryant,  Dr.  Bonar  and  men  of  that  class.  Littell's,  Scribner's.  and  other 
leading  magazines,  have  for  years  published  what  she  has  offered,  and  many  of  her  pieces 
have  been  set  to  music.  The  poems  she  has  sold,  that  are  wandering  on  their  mis 
sion  in  this  land,  and  in  Europe,  would  probably  till  six  8  mo.  volumes,  yet  she  has  been 
like  a  hidden  singer  in  a  hedge,  and  "such  'tis  now  her  choice  to  be."  She  has  not 
signed  "  Hannah'  to  her  writings  from  a  dread  that  she  might  be  supposed  to  consider 
herself  a  second  "  Hannah  More."  When  she  was  a  small  child  she  moved  with  her 
parents  to  Philadelphia,  and  it  was  in  that  city  that  she  began  to  write.  Xew  York  was 
for  many  years  Miss  Moore's  place  of  residence,  but  in  188G  she  came  back  to  Benton 
Me—"  dear  native  land  "-as  she  expresses  it,  to  stay.  The  mother  of  Miss  Moore  was  a 
poet,  too,  as  was  her  father,  a  handsome,  genial  spirit,  who  almost  worshiped  his  wife 
After  her  mother's  death,  Augusta  attended  school  at  Waterville,  Me.,  and  almost  her 
first  publisher  was  Mr.  Ephraim  Maxham,  editor  of  the  WatervUle  Mail,  who,  as  long 
as  he  lived,  manifested  an  unselfish  interest  in  her  welfare.  It  was  in  this  paper  that  Miss 
Moore,  then  using  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Wanona  Wandering,"  and  Frances  (Laughton) 
Mace  whose  notn  de  pl,ume  was  "Inez,"  made  each  other's  acquaintance,  and  the 
friendship,  thus  formed,  has  continued  all  through  their  progress  to  their  present  dis 
tinction.  Miss  Moore  wrote  many  poems  for  religious  publications,  in  early  life  under 
the  nom  de  pi  time  of  "Helen  Bruce."  We  are  allowed  to  close  this  short  sketch  with  an 
extract  from  a  letter  written  to  Miss  Moore,  by  N.  P.  Willis:  "  It  is  the  language  of  true 
genius  through  tears.  *  *  *  *  The  Home  Journal  will  rejoice  to  be  the  usher  of 
such  genius  to  the  world."  The  volume  entitled  "Plymouth  Notes  "  was  prepared  by 
Miss  Moore,  40,000  copies  of  which  were  sold  in  Europe 'during  the  book's  first  year. 

JUNE  IN  MAINE. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  summer! 

Odorous,  exquisite  June ! 
All  the  sweet  roses  in  blossom, 

All  the  sweet  birdies  in  tune. 

Dew  on  the  meadows  at  sunset; 

Gems  on  the  meadows  at  morn; 
Melody  hushing  the  evening; 

Melody  greeting  the  dawn. 

All  the  dim  aisles  of  the  forest 

Ringing  and  thrilling  with  song; 
Music — a  flood-tide  of  music — 

Poured  the  green  valleys  along. 


348  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


Rapturous  creatures  of  beauty. 

Winging  their  way  through  the  sky, 
Heavenward  warble  their  praises — 

Mount  our  thanksgivings  as  high? 

Lo !  when  a  bird  is  delighted, 
His  ecstacy  prompts  him  to  soar; 

The  greater,  the  fuller  his  rapture, 
His  songs  of  thanksgiving  the  more. 

See  how  the  winds  from  the  mountains 
Sweep  over  meadows  most  fair; 

The  green  fields  are  tossed  like  the  ocean, 
Are  shadowed  by  clouds  in  the  air. 

For  now  fleecy  shadows  are  chasing 
The  sunshine  from  woodland  and  vale, 

As  white  clouds  come  gathering  slowly, 
Blown  up  by  the  sweet-scented  gale 

Birds  and  the  gales  and  the  flowers 

Call  us  from  study  away, 
Out  to  the  fields  where  the  mowers 

Soon  will  be  making  the  hay. 

Buttercups,  daisies,  and  clover, 

Roses,  sweet-briar,  and  fern, 
Mingle  their  breath  on  the  breezes — 

Who  from  such  wooing  could  turn  ? 

Out!  to  the  heath  and  the  mountain, 
Where  mid  the  fern  and  the  brake, 

Under  the  pines  and  the  spruces, 
Fragrant  the  bower  we  will  make. 

Ravishing  voices  of  Nature, 
Ye  conquer— and  never  too  soon — 

We  yield  to  thy  luscious  embraces, 
Thou  odorous,  exquisite  June ! 


SPINNING  AND  WEAVING  IN  THE  BIRDS',  HOME.* 

I  sit  by  my  fire  and  spin, 
And  my  thoughts  like  swift  birds  go, 

Through  door  and  window,  through  earth  and  air, 
Through  the  decades,  to  and  fro. 

*  Jewankee,  which  is  an  Indian  name,  meaning  "  The  birds'  home." 


HANNAH  A  UG USTA  MOORE.  349 

Without  the  white-robed  night, 

And  the  January  moon, 
Make  glory  no  earthly  king  can  show, 

And  beauty  unknown  to  noon. 

The  earth  wears  a  glittering  robe ; 

The  trees  are  in  diamond  mail ; 
The  bushes  in  sapphires  and  rubies  glow, 

In  emeralds,  and  opals  pale. 

Keen,  keen  is  crystal  air; 

But  purer  and  sweeter  far 
Than  the  drowsy  and  odor-laden  winds 

Of  the  languid  summer  are. 

On  the  tiles  of  my  hearth  I  weave — 

O  never  beneath  this  roof 
Was  woven  such  web — but  you  cannot  see 

One  shred  of  it,  warp  or  woof. 

I  spin,  and  my  thread  is  gold, 

'  T  is  the  gold  of  memory ; 
I  weave — in  the'loom  of  departed  years — 

A  mantle  to  cover  me. 

A  mantle  in  which  my  heart, 

Enfolded,  may  sweetly  rest; 
A'shining  fabric  more  fair  than  day 

As  it  dies  in  the  beaming  west. 

A  mantle  so  soft  and  fine, 

So  glorious,  glistening  white, 
Its  folds  have  the  power  to  charm  away 

All  sorrow  and  gloom  and  night. 

O  beautiful  days  of  old ! 

0  beautiful  days  of  home ! 
Forever  and  ever  abide  with  me— 

1  unto  my  own  have  come.* 

And  I  sit  by  my  hearth  and  spin, 

And  when  I  have  spun,  I  weave, 
Till  all  th.it  I  love  in  my  bright  web  smile; 

Though  I  sit  alone,  at  eve. 


*  Two  years  a?o  last  sum  n3r,  during  a  season  of  great  trial  and  depression,  I  dreamed 
of  being  with  one  who  wis  earnestly  con  lolin^  w.th  and  co  n  fort  ing  me,  saying  repeat 
edly,  "Never  mini  it  now,  'tis  all  over;  yon  nave  o.m  unto  your  own."  Was  it  pro 
phetic  of  this  thin  utterly  unexpected  return  to  my  dear  mother's  early  home  the  very 
house  and  room  in  which  I  was  born?  A  M. 


350  JHE  POETb  OF  MAINE. 


Alone  ?  In  the  ancient  home  ? 

Ah,  never  such  tiling  can  be! 
I  have  come  to  my  own,  and  my  own  are  here,- 

They  never  will  part  from  me. 

At  morn,  and  at  noon  and  eve 

They  hallow  my  dwelling  still, 
Till  with  them  I  pass  to  the  home  above, 

At  the  blessed  Master's  will. 


EARTH'S  VIGIL. 

O  heart  of  the  earth,  where  they  laid  him, 
Didst  know  what  was  trusted  to  thee, 

When,  in  the  still  evening,  they  brought  Him, 
With  the  rich  in  His  burial  to  be  ? 

There  once  was  a  forest-born  maiden, 
Whose  love  went,  unsought,  to  the  king; 

He  roaming,  disguised,  through  the  forest, 
Felt  under  his  doublet  a  sting. 

His  sight  and  his  strength  were  departing, 
He  staggered  and  scarcely  could  stand, 

As  he  entered  a  forester's  dwelling, 
Holding  fast  a  dead  snake  in  his  hand. 

'T  was  the  home  of  the  maiden  that  loved  him; 

And  there  sat  the  maiden  alone; 
She  sprang  to  assist  and  console  him — 

Him  instantly,  perfectly  known. 

"Fear  not,  O  my  king,  'twill  not  harm  thee, 
For  short,  though  so  potent,  its  spell ; 

'T  is  only  to  sleep,  while  I  guard  thee, 
And  soon  thou  wilt  wake  and  be  well. 

"  My  couch  is  sweet  fern,  newly  gathered, 
And  spread  with  fresh  linen  to-day; 

Lie  down,  and  I  '11  sing  to  thee  softly, 
And  keep  every  danger  away." 

She  sings,  while  his  splendid  eye  closes: 
His  cheek  to  her  pillow  is  pressed; 

"No  power  of  the  serpent  can  hold  thee; 
This  slumber  is  only  for  rest." 


HA  NNA  H  AUG  US  TA  MO  ORE.  351 


And  there  lay  the  lord  of  her  bosom, 
The  king  of  a  mighty  realm  there ; 

His  power  and  his  grandeur  forgotten, 
All  helpless,  asleep  in  her  care. 

"He  is  mine!  he  is  mine!"  sang  the  maiden, 
"While  this  blesse'd  slumber  shall  last; 

Ah!  when  he  wakes  and  goes  from  me, 
My  joy  and  my  life  will  be  past." 

Her  king  was  a  warrior  heroic, 

Triumphant  wherever  he  trod ; 
With  the  courage  and  strength  of  a  Titan, 

With  the  face  and  the  form  of  a  god. 

His  shining  locks,  decking  her  pillow, 
Were  sweet  with  a,  costly  perfume, 

The  which,  with  the  scent  of  his  garments, 
Like  incense  pervaded  the  room. 

The  aloes,  the  myrrh,  and  the  spices, 
Brought  late  in  the  dark  of  one  morn, 

This  slumbering  king  in  his  beauty, 
His  pride  and  his  glory,  had  worn. 

O  say,  yearning  spirit  of  woman, 
Hath  earth  any  language  can  show 

The  rapture,  the  pain,  and  the  trembling 
Such  life-drinking  vigil  must  know  ? 

And  when  in  Earth's  quivering  bosom 
The  King  and  her  Maker  was  laid, 

Disguised  in  the  flesh,  still  she  knew  Him, 
And  trembled  with  joy,  though  afraid. 

And  while  all  His  brethren  were  doubting 
The  Christ  if  they  ever  had  seen, 

Earth  doubted  not  Him,  though  in  wonder 
At  what  his  strange  slumber  could  mean. 

And  still  as  she  watched  Him  she  chanted, 
"  Thou  art  mine  while  asleep  in  my  breast, 

And  no  power  of  the  serpent  can  hold  Thee; 
This  slumber  is  only  for  rest." 

And  nothing  one  moment  could  win  her 

To  turn  from  her  vigil  aside. 
How  should  not  all  nature  stand  waiting 

When  He,  in  whom  life  is,  had  died  ? 


352  THE  POETS  OF  MA INE. 


Thus  faithfully,  rev'rently  watching, 
Earth  saw  him  awake  and  arise; 

And  she  quaked  to  her  heart  at  His  triumph, 
With  pleasure,  but  not  with  surprise. 


THE  LIFE  SAVERS. 

All  night  long— do  you  know  it  ?    Do  you  care  ? 

Up  and  down  the  ocean  beaches  they  are  marching; 
All  the  lanesome  peril  of  the  winter  nights  they  dare, 

Where  the  surf  shoots,  seething,  landward  in  the  bitter,  biting  air; 

And  the  fitful  lights  and  shadows  of  the  lanterns  that  they  bear 
Make  more  wild  the  gloomy  sky  above  them  arching 

Where  the  coast  is  bleak  and  cold ; 

Where  the  rocks  are  high  and  bold, 
While  the  wind  and  snow  and  sleet  are  beating; 

Where  the  breakers  rush  and  roar, 

There  they  watch  for  ships  ashore, 
The  cry  for  help  with  instant  succor  meeting. 

All  night  long  where  the  surges  flood  the  dunes, 
Stern  watch  and  ward  they  keep,  strong  eyes  sweeping 
The  offing,  while  the  breakers  are  roaring  savage  runes, 
While  the  stormy  winds  are  howling  or  wailing  dismal  tunes, 
While  the  rocks  and  sands  about  them  are  becoming  broad  lagoons, 
The  life-saving  watch  these  braves  are  keeping. 

All  niglit  long  while  the  timid  landsmen  sleep, 

Dreaming,  snug  and  warm,  on  their  downy  pillows, 

The  co  ist-guard,  the  surf-men  down  by  the  deep, 

Steadfastly,  bravely,  their  watch  heroic  keep, 

Or  into  the  sea — icy  cold — they  boldly  leap, 
To  rescue  fellow-men  from  the  billows. 

Talk  not  of  heroes  whose  trade  it  is  to  kill! 

Life  savers!  these  are  the  god-like  heroes  still, 

Risking  their  lives  for  every  life  they  save 

From  the  plunging  wreck,  or  snatch  from  swirling  wave. 

O  when  your  beds  are  warm, 

In  nights  of  winter  storm, 
When  you  are  safe  from  wind  and  sea — 

Think  of  the  surf-men  brave : 

Their  life  watch  by  the  wave, 
And  cheer  them  by  your  grateful  sympathy. 


HA NNA H  AUGUSTA  MOOR E. 


353 


CALLING  THE  COWS. 
'T  was  a  vision  of  the  morning,          The  breathings  of  the  river 

'T  was  a  vision  of  the  mist,  To  phantom  shapes  had  grown; 

Ere  the  purple  hills  of  dawning         They  curled  about  the  mountain, 

By  the  sun's  first  rays  were  kissed.      They  through  the  vale  were  blown. 

Up  floated,  through  gray  shadows,  Lightly  they  clung  to  Gracie, 

To  my  chamber's  silent  gloom.  Standing  on  dew-drops  there; 

The  tuneful  voice  of  Gracie  -  Lightly  they  veiled  her  features 

Its  music  filled  my  room.  And  flowing  golden  hair. 


It  called  me  from  my  roving 
In  the  land  of  pleasant  dreams, 

The  land  of  happy  loving, 
By  soft,  untroubled  streams. 

Fair  as  an  Eister  lily, 
And  beautiful  and  tall, 

Stood  Gracie— from  ths  shadows 
Making  her  winsome  call. 


Was  it  a  mortal  maiden, 

Thus,  half-revealed,  that  stood, 
On  an  oread  of  the  mountain, 

Or  a  dryad  of  the  wood  ? 

Or,  from  the  darkling  river 
Had  a  fair  naiad  sprung, 

Weiring  the  form  of  Gracie, 
With  Grade's  silver  tongue  ? 


uSoh,  Fan!  soh,  Fan!  soh,  Pinkie!  "Soh,  Fan!  soh,  Fan!  soh,  Pinkie! 

Soh,  Pinkie!  and  soh,  Fan!"  Soh,  Pinkie!  and  soh,  Fan!" 

Paint  ye  a  morning  picture  Paint  ye  a  morning  picture 

More  spirit-like  who  can !  More  spirit-like  who  can. 


THE  SENTRY'S  HYMN. 

The  following  lines  are  based  on  an  actual  incident  of  the  late  war,  and  a  subsequent 
revelation  of  the  sentry's  peril. 

"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul!" 

On  the  midnight  air  it  rung, 
Echoed  through  the  darkling  pines, 

From  the  sentry's  tuneful  tongue. 

Strange  unrest  and  homesick  thought, 

Nameless  dread  his  heart  opprest  - 
What  such  saddening  change  had  wrought 

In  the  sentry's  cheerful  breast? 

Calm  and  still  the  starry  night; 

Beautiful  and  full  of  balm 
Were  the  fields,  the  groves  of  pine 

Singing  low  their  wonted  psalm. 


354 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

But  until  his  latest  day, 
Like  a  writing  clear  and  plain, 

Memory  of  that  lonesome  night 
Witli  the  sentry  will  remain. 

Its  unwonted,  haunting  dread ; 

Its  unreasoning,  restless  gloom; 
Its  deep  sense  of  helplessness; 

Its  sore  pining  after  home. 

Unknown  danger  in  the  air 

Seemed  to  threaten,  close  and  strong; 
So  he  made  to  God  his  prayer 

In  the  sacred  words  of  song. 

"Cover  my  defenseless  head 
With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing,"— 

Was  it  but  a  charmed  pine 
Bending  low  to  hear  him  sing  ? 

"Other  refuge  have  I  none," 

Then  he  thought,  "  What  need  I  more?" 
And  his  trouble  all  was  gone. 

Like  the  wave  that  meets  the  shore. 


"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul!" 
From  a  steamer's  deck  it  rung; 

When,  entranced,  a  silent  throng 
On  the  singer's  accents  hung. 

Marvelous  his  gift  of  song ! 

Melody,  pathetic,  clear, 
Angel  music!  every  heart 

Thrilled  the  wondrous  strains  to  hear. 

From  the  outer,  spell-bound  crowd 
Pressed  a  stranger,  dark  and  tall ; 

"  Once  before  I  heard  you  sing," 
Said  he  gravely;  "I  recall 

"Well  that  voice,  that  starry  night; 

Underneath  the  pines  I  stood, 
With  my  rifle  aimed  to  send 

Lead  to  shed  your  brave  heart's  blood. 

"I  was  chosen  for  my  skill — 
Ah!  my  deadly  aim  was  sure; 

'Cover  my  defenseless  head,' 
Thus  you  sung  and  were  secure." 


HANNA  H  A  UG  US TA  MOORE.  355 


Death's  cold  shadow!  how  it  pressed 
Dense  and  close  the  sentry  lone; 

But  he  sung  his  prayer,  and  lo ! 
All  the  gloom  of  death  passed  on. 

Clasping  warm  the  other's  hand, 
Spake  the  sentry  chokingly : 

"Henceforth  this,  my  dearest  hymn, 
Is  most  holy  unto  me." 


THE  CRYSTAL  MORNING. 

DEDICATED    TO    FRANCES    L.    MACE. 

No  "golden  coast"  for  me; 

For  me  the  crystal  shore ; 
The  North  wind  blowing  free; 

The  Frost  King's  magic  lore, 
Written  on  every  bush  and  tree, 

In  dazzling,  diamond  tracery. 

O  gracious,  glorious  morn ! 

O  weird  and  wondrous  sky ! 
From  which  white  stars  are  born; 

Behold  them  float  and  fly! 
Resplendent  in  prismatic  light, 

They  almost  take  away  the  sight. 

The  snow-clad  earth  is  fair; 

But  oh !  the  mountain  wood ! 
But  oh!  the  tree-crowned  hill! 

Where  I  in  childhood  stood, 
To  watch  for  my  beloved  mate — 
Her  coming,  still,  is  overlate. 

The  stately  trees  arise 

In  majesty  supreme; 
In  more  than  royal  guise 

They  glitter,  glance  and  gleam. 
The  ledges  and  the  rocky  wall 
Are  clad  in  burnished  armor  all. 

My  apple-tree  is  decked 

Like  an  imperial  bride — 
Nay,  all  in  diamonds  dressed 

Was  any  bride  beside  ? 
Here  gems  of  white  and  rose  and  green 
From  topmost  twig  to  stem  are  seen. 


366  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  fir  boughs  at  my  door 
Wave  with  a  thousand  lights ; 

Each  weed  so  dull  before, 
Beaming,  the  eye  delights. 

Banners  and  plumes  of  feathery  grace 

On  everything  have  found  a  place. 

No  flowery  tropic  land 

Can  ever  rival  this ; 
No  scene  more  pure,  more  grand, 

On  all  the  round  earth  is. 
The  Glory  of  the  Lord  is  HERE, 

O  Native  Home,  so  bright!  so  dear! 


THE  WATCHER. 

Think  not  of  me  as  dead — I  shall  not  die, 

But  pass  into  a  larger,  freer  room ; 
And  though  unseen  by  thy  weak  mortal  eye, 

To  watch  beside  thee  I  shall  often  come. 

"Equal  unto  the  angels"  is  the  word; 

And  "as  the  angels"  when  with  them  we  dwell; 
And  I  will  ask  it  of  our  gracious  Lord, 

That  I  may  guard  the  soul  I  love  so  well. 

Denials  are  not  there;  when  lone  at  eve 
Thou  sittest,  thinking  of  the  past  and  me, 

My  whisper  shall  forbid  thy  heart  to  grieve, 
Though  thou  wilt  think  'tis  only  memory. 

And  when  thou  standest  mid  thy  flowers  at  morn, 
And  over  thee  soft  breezes  from  above 

Float  tenderly,  as  of  frankincense  born, 
Know  thou  the  kisses  of  thine  angel  love. 

When  thou  art  happy,  when  110  danger  waits, 
I  may  be  far  away  with  heavenly  friends. 

Praising  the  king  within  the  pearly  gates, 
Before  the  throne  where  every  angel  bends. 

But  in  thine  hour  of  danger  or  of  woe, 

Be  sure,  be  sure  that  I  am  at  thy  side, 
Strong  to  defend  mine  own  from  every  foe 

That  comes  unwelcome — strong  to  cheer  and  guide. 

When  sounds  the  solemn  word  that  thou  must  go 
From  all  the  works  and  ways  beneath  the  sun, 

My  hand  shall  lead  thee  forth  from  all  below — 
My  aims  receive  thee,  O  beloved  one! 


CAROLINE  W.  I).  RICH.  357 


f  xroline  $ff.  g.  §ich. 

Mrs.  Caroline  W.  D.  Rich  is  a  native  of  Byron.  Oxford  County,  Maine.  Her  father, 
John  Stockbridge  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  .John  Stockbridge,  who  came  to  Boston, 
Mass.,  from  Kent,  England,  in  IG27  Her  mother,  Anna  Le-ivitt,  was  a  lineal  descend 
ant  of  .John  Leavitt.  who  came  to  Dorchester,  Mass.,  in  102*.  Both  grandfathers  came 
from  Massachusetts  while  Maine  was  yet  a  province.  The  father  of  Caroline  was  lilted 
for  college  in  his  father's  school  in  Freeport.  <  •muunstances  led  him  to  farming  in  the 
wilderness  of  Western  .Maine.  Caroline  early  showed  a  fondness  for  writing  Her  home 
was  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  natural  scenery.  Forests,  fields,  ponds  and  meadows,  diver 
sified  with  brooks  and  mountains,  contributed  to  a  picturesque  landscape.  Doubtless  famil 
iarity  with  such  varied  scenes  accounts  for  her  delicate  truthfulness  and  appreciation  of 
nature;  she  loves  her  "  various  moods"  and  her  imagery  is  drawn  from  the  storehouse  of 
childhood's  memory.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  she  wrote  a  piece  that  was  sent  to  a  paper  in 
Worcester,  Mass  ,  by  a  young  friend  to  whom  she  showed  it.  She  spent  a  year  at  Gor- 
ham  Seminary  under  E.  P.  Weston.  She  afterwards  graduated  from  the  Cambridge, 
Mass.  High  School,  and  then  entered  the  Charlestown,  Mass..  Female  Seminary  when 
Miss  Martha  Whiting  was  principal,  graduating  in  1850.  Mrs.  Hicli  has  written  two 
books,  one  a  temperance  story,  "Slippery  Paths,"  which  passed  into  the  third  edition; 
the  other  a  poem,  "  A  Summer  Idyl,"  printed  especially  for  a  souvenir  for  friends. 
Another  poem  of  considerable  length  was  written  for  the  Turner  centennial:  it  is  embod 
ied  in  the  "  History  of  Turner,"  and  also  in  pamphlet  form.  It  is  creditable  for  a  poem 
of  its  kind  and  critics  have  pronounced  its  descriptions  of  early  times  very  felicitous. 
Several  poems  of  the  imagination,  legends,  and  ballads  have  been  written  by  her,  and 
many  have  never  been  published.  A  few  translations  have  been  added  t»her  work  in 
poetry.  For  more  than  fifteen  years  she  was  unable  to  do  anv  poetical  work.  During 
this  time  she  wrote  some  meritorious  stories  for  children,  which  have  been  copied  into 
various  publications,  but.  invariably  writing  under  a  nom  (If  plume-,  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  trace  her  work  She  resumed  her  poetical  pen  six  years  ago.  and  it  is  evident  that 
power  and  purity  have  been  gained  in  silence.  Her  style  is  versatile  and  her  poems  cover 
quite  a  range  of  subjects.  Some  hymns  are  well  written  and  devout  in  spirit. 


MUSINGS. 

The  evening  zephyrs  softly  blow, 

By  brooklets  where  the  hare-bells  grow, 

While  through  the  sunset's  after-glow, 

Soft  and  low, 
The  whispering  pines  sway  to  and  fro. 

O  dying  day;  O  fading  light, 

Thy  purple  tints,  now  dark,  now  bright, 

Like  joys  and  sorrows  in  their  might, 

Come  to-night, 
While  beckoning  spirits  charm  my  sight. 

Night's  curtains  shroud  the  pearly  west; 
The  vision  fades— yet  am  I  blest- 
Sweet  peace  once  more  within  my  breast, 

Giving  rest, 
Abides  with  me,  a  heavenly  guest. 


LOVE'S  DEEAM. 

SWEETHEART,  you  came  one  summer  day 
As  'neath  the  fragrant  pints  I  lay, 
And  with  kind  tone  and  gentle  sigh 


358  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Whispered,  "Dear  love,  a  long  good-bye; 
1  only  wait  the  dread  command 
That  bids  me  pass  the  unknown  strand." 
We  stood  with  tearful  eyes  of  mine, 
With  a  sweet  trustful  look  in  thine, 
I  tried  to  speak.     I  felt  the  chill 
Of  coming  loss — felt  my  own  will 
Yielding  to  fear :  while  nearer  came 
A  messenger  I  will  not  name. 
My  lips  touched  yours,— no  word  or  sign 
Returned  that  soulful  kiss  of  mine, — 
ETERNITY  that  moment  seemed, — 
Darling !  I  woke,  and  lo,  I  dreamed ! 

SHADOWS. 

Upon  the  river's  bank  I  lie 

Beneath  the  cloud-flecked,  azure  sky, 

While  sedge,  and  fern,  and  waving  tree, 

In  Nature's  looking-glass  I  see— 

The  hay- rack,  with  its  fragrant  load 

Passing  along  the  grass-grown  road — 

The  teamster  with  his  easy  swing, 

The  mower's  scythe,  with  backward  fling, 

The  falling  grass,  the  rhythmic  tread, 

Mirrored  upon  the  river's  bed. 

The  swallows  flitting  to  and  fro, 

Meet  shadow-swallows  down  below — 

While  nearer,  with  their  busy  hum, 

The  bumble-bees  and  blue-flies  come. 


UNKNOWN. 

Only  an  old,  bent  woman, 

Who  came  through  the  open  door, 
Standing  unnoticed  and  weary 

Where  she  never  had  stood  before. 
Only  a  stir  and  whisper 

When  she  entered  a  vacant  pew; 
Not  one,  in  all  that  churchful, 

Whom  the  poor  old  woman  knew. 
Only  an  earnest  preacher, 

Only  a  plain,  gospel  text- 
Words  that  were  thoughtful  and  simple 

About  this  life  and  the  next, 
Only  the  old  scenes  thronging, 

Only  fast-falling  tears, 


CAROLINE  W.  D,  RICH. 

And  glimpses  of  sinless  girlhood, 

Far  back  in  the  vanished  years. 
Only  the  bright  home  fireside, 

In  the  days  of  long  ago, 
When  the  clustering  curls  were  raven 

That  now  are  as  white  as  snow. 
The  church  is  empty,  and  silence 

Is  resting  on  organ  and  pew — 
Only  an  old  woman  lingers 

Whom  none  of  the  church-folk  knew 


DECORATION  DAY. 


We  gather  again, 

With  wreaths  for  the  dead, 
Fit  honors  for  them 

Who  for  freedom  have  bled ; 
While  the  fragrance  of  flowers 

Forever  shall  be 
Like  incense  of  glory 

From  Liberty's  tree. 

Ah,  little  they  reck, 

Who  stoop  to  entwine 
The  gift  of  bright  flowers, 

The  wild,  trailing  vine ! 
Earth  knows  not  a  Nation, 

Whose  warriors  so  keep 
A  vigil  of  love 

Over  comrades  who  sleep. 

Martial  music,  #ach  spring-time, 
With  tributes  so  sweet, 

And  phalanx,  slow-moving, 
And  drums'  muffled  beat, 


And  veterans,  war-scarred, 

With  their  standard  above- 
Such  pageants  repeat 
Freedom's  undying  love. 

Though  mosses  may  creep 

Over  names  carved  with  care, 
The  grasses  grow  tangled, 

Neglect  everywhere, 
O'er  hillocks  where  only 

The  epitaphs  tell 
The  legend  of  him 

Who  for  Liberty  fell- 
Aye,  these  names  all  may  perish 

This  granite  decay; 
The  mounds  become  shapeless, 

Where  children  will  play; 
But  the  ransom  our  nation 

For  freedom  has  paid 
Will  never,  no,  never, 

From  history  fade. 


RAINDROPS. 

Falling,  gleaming  in  the  sunshine, 
Down  upon  the  fragrant  hay 
Came  a  thousand  tiny  raindrops 
Like  a  fairy  host  at  play. 
Through  the  clouds  a  golden  sunbeam, 
Like  a  smile,  from  heaven  came ; 
Instantly  the  falling  raindrops 
Changed  into  an  arch  of  flame. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


IN  MEMORIAM 

OF    MRS.    F.    B.    LITTLE,    AUBURN. 

She  has  passed  on  over  the  river, 

On  through  the  pearly  gates; 
Her  weariness  now  is  over, 

Yet  still  she  watches  and  waits. 
Watches  beside  her  loved  ones, 

Waits  in  the  room— the  hall, 
Sits  by  the  flickering  firelight, 

With  a  loving  thought  for  all. 

How  oft,  when  the  heart  in  sadness 

Longs  for  an  answering  word, 
And  life  seems  shorn  of  gladness, 

And  the  depths  of  the  soul  are  stirred, 
Will  the  presence  of  the  loved  one 

Come,  with  a  thrill  so  sweet 
The  heart  will  quicken  its  measure, 

As  it  waits  for  the  quiet  feet. 

0  strange  and  sweet  the  fancy ! 
I  ask  not  now  to  know 

How  the  spirits  of  our  loved  ones 

Around  us  come  and  go; 
Whether  with  shadowy  footsteps, 

Or,  borne  011  noiseless  wing, 
They  come  with  the  old  love  to  us, 

And  spirit  healing  bring. 

For  me,  the  veiled  presence 
Is  clothed  with  heavenly  grace, 

1  would  not  rend  the  mystery 
That  hides  the  cherished  face. 

All  longings  of  the  present, 

All  tears  for  joys  now  past, 
By  sorrow's  subtile  alchemy, 

Will  change  to  bliss  at  last. 


jjarretvs  jjtxton. 


Mrs».  Nancy  B.  Yeaton.  a  sister  of  the  late  Judge  Barrows,  of  Brunswick,  was  born  in 
North  Yarmouth  in  1S1G,  and  died  in  Naples,  Got.  21,  1S64.  Much  of  her  eariy  life,  as 
were  some  of  her  later  years,  was  spent  in  Fryeburg.  She  furnished  an  excellent  poem 
for  the  centennial  exercises  of  Fryebnrg,  Aug.  20.  1363.  Before  her  marriage  she  was  a 
teacher,  for  several  years,  in  the  Gorham  Seminary.  Later,  she  married  Rev.  Franklin 
Yeaton. 


NANCY  BARROWS  Y EATON.  361 


HYMN. 

SUNG   AT   THE    ANNUAL   EXHIBITION   OF   G OKI! AM    SEMINARY,  1839. 

Is  it  aught  but  a  dream  ? 
Has  another  year  sped 
Along  Time's  chilling  stream, 

To  the  home  of  the  dead  ? 

Has  the  autumn  leaf  faded,  the  wintry  day  gone, 
And  gay  spring,  with  its  music  of  birds,  hastened  on  ? 
And  the  ashes  of  flowers  in  memory's  urn 
Been  quickened  to  life  by  the  summer's  return? 

It  appears  like  a  dream ; 

Glitters  hope's  morning  star, 
With  the  same  dazzling  beam, 

As  in  days- that  are  far. 

Still  blossoms  the  rose-tree  of  feeling,  entwined 
With  the  wild  vine  of  joy  that  around  it  we  bind; 
The  same  skies  are  o'er  us,  and  soft  through  the  trees, 
With  its  spirit-like  voice,  steals  the  whispering  breeeze. 

'Tis  not  all  a  dream — 

On  the  wing  of  the  year, 
Have  flown  voices  that  seem 

To  be  still  floating  near; 
It  is  only  their  echo  in  memory's  cells, 
With  a  tone  from  the  land  where  the  pure  spirit  dwells— 
We  hear  them  no  more— they  have  joined  in  the  song 
That  is  warbling  forth  from  the  seraphim  throng. 

'Twill  be  more  than  a  dream 

When  our  pilgrimage  here 

From  dark  time  shall  redeem 

The  next  wild  fleeting  year 

For  kind  friends  are  departing,  and  those  who  shall  roam- 
Far  awiy  from  the  mountains  and  streams  of  their  home, 
We  may  ne'er  meet  again  till  flown  life's  brief  day, 
This  world  and  its  changing  scenes  vanish  away. 

ODE  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1840. 
Shall  Freedom  sleep  ?  on  sunlight  borne, 

Come  tones  of  vanished  years,  that  fall 
Upon  the  listening  ear  of  morn, 

While  summer's  thousand  voices  call ; 
Waken,  Spirit!  by  mountain,  stream,  and  tree! 
Waken,  Spirit  of  the  free ! 

35 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


To  calm  thy  slumber— Time's  dark  wing 
Had  fanned  and  cooled  thy  burning  brow ; 

Then  Pleasure  touched  the  witching  string 
That  lulls  thee  to  repose  e'en  now; 

Waken,  Spirit !  by  mountain,  stream,  and  tree ! 
Waken,  Spirit  of  the  free ! 

The  shades  of  heroes  long  at  rest, 

Arise  and  mingle  in  the  throng, 
Around  their  country's  altar  blest, 

Their  harps  attuned  to  Nature's  song; 
Waken,  Spirit!  by  mountain,  stream,  and  tree! 
Waken,  Spirit  of  the  free ! 

And  thunder  notes  afar  are  heard, 

That  swell  upon  the  air  around ; 
The  sullen  ocean  depths  are  stirred 

And  bid  the  rocks  send  back  the  sound; 
Waken,  Spirit!  by  mountain,  stream,  and  tree! 
Waken,  Spirit  of  the  free ! 

That  thunder  voice— it  speaks  of  one 
Whose  plume  ne'er  drooped  on  battle  plain; 

Thy  name,  illustrious  Harrison, 
Is  mingled  with  the  hallowed  strain; 

Waken,  Spirit!  by  mountain,  stream,  and  tree! 
Waken,  Spirit  of  the  free!    - 


en  after  her  marriage  and  in  the  midst  of  home  cares.    Much  that  she  lias 


en  aer    er  m 

outpouring  ;  of  a  sorrowing  heart,  follo 
Hall  died  in  Gibraltar,  Spain,  in  18G5. 


outpouring  ;  of  a  sorrowing  heart,  following  closely  upon  some  heavy  bereavement.    Mrs. 


THE  LITTLE  CHILD'S  BELIEF. 

I  believe  in  God,  the  Father,  He  taught  us  to  be  holy, 

Who  made  us  every  one,-  Till  on  the  cross  he  died,— 

Who  made  the  earth  and  heaven,  And  now  we  call  him  Saviour 

The  moon  and  stars  and  sun;  And  Christ,  the  Crucified. 

All  that  we  have  each  day,  I  believe  in  Jesus  Christ,- 

By  Him  is  given,  The  Father's  only  son, 

We  call  Him,  when  we  pray,  Who  came  to  us  from  heaven, 

Our  Father  in  heaven.  And  loved  us  every  one  ; 


ANNE  AUGUSTA  NICHOLS  HALL.  363 

I  believe  God's  Holy  Spirit  From  Heaven,  upon  Jesus, 

Is  with  us  every  day,  It  descended  like  a  dove, 

And  if  we  do  not  grieve  it,  And  itdwellethever  with  us, 

Will  never  go  away;  To  fill  our  hearts  with  love. 


THE  NURSERY. 

Nay,  bring  no  lamps, — I  would  no  light, 

Save  the  moon's  soft  beams  be  here, 
For  she  in  loveliness  bathes  to-night 

These  cherub  faces  dear. 
And  I  have  heard  each  lisping  prayer, 

And  pillowed  each  fair  head, 
And  spoken  low  and  loving  words 

Beside  each  little  bed; 

And  O  my  heart  is  all  too  full 

To  bear  intrusion  now, 
Alone  I'd  press  my  good-night  kiss 

On  each  sweet  childish  brow. 
My  children!  O  no  other  sound 

My  heart's  deep  love  hath  stirred, 
Like  the  utterance  of  this  simple  one, 

This  sweetest  "Household  word." 

Its  magic  turns  each  grief  to  joy, 

Each  cloud  to  silver  light, 
And  makes  life's  short  o'er-sliadowing  sky 

With  heavenly  radiance  bright. 
Not  all  the  glittering  gems  of  Ind, 

Beneath  a  lordly  dome, 
Can  match  the  mother's  priceless  pearls 

That  deck  her  humbler  home. 

My  treasures  these, — O  be  my  prayer 

For  grace  from  Him  on  high 
To  guide  aright  these  cherished  ones, 

These  blessings  from  the  sky. 
And  not  one  doubt  for  coming  years 

My  want  of  faith  shall  prove, 
That  He  who  gave  these  precious  gifts 

Will  guard  them  with  His  love. 


364 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Mufwh  jjobart. 


Mrs.  Augustus  Hobart,  whose  maiden  name  was  Caroline  Nichols,  was  born  at  Augusta, 
Me.,  March  20,1827.  She  was  married.  March  20,  1850,  after  which  time  she  lived  in 
Boston,  Mass.,  and  it  was  there  that  she  died  in  1856.  During  the  second  year  of  her 
married  life,  and  soon  after  the  birth  of  her  little  girl,  while  happy  in  the  full  enjoy 
ment  of  the  love  and  devotion  of  her  husband,  family  and  friends,  fresh  with  the  hope 
of  a  bright  earthly  future,  she  one  day  visited  the  Old  Ladies'  Home,  then  but  recently 
established.  This  visit  suggested  the  following  lines. 


ON  VISITING  "THE  OLD  LADIES'  HOME." 


Shall  we  grow  old, 

And  will  our  hair  grow  gray; 
And  will  our  hearts  be  saddened, 

And  our  hopes  decay  ? 


A  parent's  joy! 

Our  cup  of  bliss  o'erflows; 
Too  happy  and  too  blessed  to  think 

Aught  of  our  woes. 


Shall  we,  who  now  When,  suddenly, 

Have  parents,  friends  and  home,  Death's  veil,  Idng  hid  from  view, 

Of  these  rich  gifts  be  reft,  Before  us  waves  and  falls  upon 

And  be  at  last  alone  The  loved  and  true, 


Shall  it  be  ours 

To  see  a  father  die, 
And  by  a  mother  watch  and  hear 

H  er  last  drawn  sigh  ? 


And  wraps  them  both, 

Husband  and  child  in  its  dark  fold 
And  bears  them  to  the  tomb, 

So  dark,  so  cold. 


Then,  orphaned,  turn 

A  brother's  love  to  share, 

Or  trustingly  resign  us 
To  a  sister's  care  ? 


Alone,  alone, 

To  live  and  die  alone; 
Without  one  friend  to  love 

And  call  our  own. 


But  while  we  trust, 

These,  too,  have  passed  away; 
And  dark  and  dreary  seems 

Our  future  day. 

Hope  lingers  still, 

A  friend  has  faithful  proved; 
And  trusting,  hoping,  loving, 

We  are  still  loved. 

New  ties  are  formed, 

And  hearts  that  love  are  one, 
And  joy  increases,  and  life  seems 

But  now  begun. 


Our  Father,  God, 

O  give  us  strength  to  bear  e'en  this, 
If  'tis  thy  will,  and  cheer  our  hearts 

With  promised  bliss. 

Let  the  sweet  words, 

"  Lo,  I  am  with  you  even  to  the  end," 
Bring  peace,  and  teach  our  will 

To  thine  to  bend. 

And  though  we  're  old, 

And  friends  have  passid  away, 
We're  hopeful  still,  "He  is  the  Life, 

The  Truth,  the  Way." 


CAROLINE  NICHOLS  HOB  ART.  365 


CHILDHOOD'S  FAITH. 

Our  little  girl  was  all  undressed, 

Clad  in  her  robe  of  white ; 
Then  kneeling  down,  she  prayed  that  God 

Would  keep  her  through  the  night. 

But  three  years  old,  this  little  one, 
Yet  grief  had  touched  her  heart; 

For  with  her  brother,  "baby  boy," 
She  had  been  called  to  part. 

She  knew  that  he  had  gone  to  heaven, 
Her  faith  was  strong  and  pure; 

The  blessed  Saviour  cared  for  him, 
Of  this  she  seemed  so  sure, 

That  when  her  little  prattling  tongue 

Could  find  a  listening  ear, 
She'd  talk  of  baby  cold  in  death, 

Although  without  a  fear. 

"For  God,"  she  said,  "had  taken  him 

Up  to  a  happy  home, 
To  wait  until  his  dear  papa, 

Mamma,  and  she  should  come." 

To-night  I  had  been  telling  her, 
When  summer  months  were  here, 

Of  a  long  journey  we  would  take 
To  visit  friends  most  dear. 

At  first  she  merry  seemed,  but  then 

So  quickly  said,  "Mamma," 
And  added  very  thoughtfully, 

"  Is  heaven  very  far  ?" 

As  if  she  felt  we  e'en  might  take 

A  journey  to  that  land, 
Where  little  brother's  loving  face 

Helped  form  an  angel  band. 

O  darling  one,  through  thy  whole  life, 

Faith  be  thy  guiding  star; 
Then  when  sweet  voices  call  thee  home, 

Thou  'It  know  heaven  is  not  far. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


HHiiim  jjekhtr  (glazier. 


Born  in  Hallowell,  June  29,  1827,  and  son  of  Franklin  Glazier,  Esq.,  a  member  of  the 
old  and  well-known  firm  of  Glazier,  Masters  &  Smith,  booksellers  and  publishers.  Wil 
liam  entered  Harvard  University  in  1844,  and,  on  graduating  in  1847,  returned  to  Hallow- 
ell,  and  read  law  in  the  office  of  H.  W.  Paine,  Esq.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1850, 
and  opened  a  law  office  in  Newcastle,  where  he  remained  three  years,  when  he  again 
returned  to  his  native  city.  He  removed  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  in  1855,  and  practiced  law 
there  until  his  death,  which  occurred  in  November,  1870.  A  volume  of  Mr.  Glazier's  poe 
try  was  published  in  Hallowell,  in  1853.  Many  of  these  pieces  originally  appeared  in  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  of  which  he  was  a  highly  esteemed  contributor.  The  follow 
ing  poem  Avas  highly  praised  by  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


DECEMBER  SNOW. 

Fall  thickly  on  the  rose-bush, 

O  faintly  falling  snow ! 
For  she  is  gone  who  trained  its  branch, 

And  wooed  its  bud  to  blow. 

Cover  the  well-known  path-way, 

O  damp  December  snow, 
Her  step  no  longer  lingers  there, 

When  stars  begin  to  glow. 

Melt  in  the  rapid  river, 

O  cold  and  cheerless  snow! 
She  sees  no  more  its  sudden  wave, 

Nor  hears  its  foaming  flow. 

Chill  every  song-birds'  music, 

O  silent,  sullen  snow ! 
I  cannot  hear  her  loving  voice, 

That  lulled  me  long  ago. 

Sleep  on  the  Earth's  broad  bosom, — 

O  heavy,  winter  snow ! 
Its  fragrant  flowers  and  blithesome  birds 

Should  with  its  loved  one  go. 


THE  SUMMER  SEA. 

0  Summer  Sea,  thy  murmuring  waves  are  singing 
A  song  of  sweetness  in  my  listening  ear, 

Youth,  Love  and  Hope,  that  lulling  strain  is  bringing 
Back  to  my  heart  in  forms  distinct  and  dear; 
Again  the  glorious  visions  of  life's  morning 
Rise  on  my  sight  and  make  the  darkness  flee, 
Again  upon  thy  shores,  at  daylight's  dawning, 

1  walk  with  one  beloved,  O  Summer  Sea. 


JOHN  BOD  WELL  WOOD.  367 


Your  soft  waves  kiss  her  feet  and  love  to  linger 

Upon  the  sand  where  her  light  steps  have  strayed, 

Now  in  thy  tide  she  dips  her  snowy  finger, 

And  now  I  feel  it  on  my  forehead  laid; 

"I  sign  thee  with  a  sign,"  she  softly  murmurs, 

And  turns  her  blushing  face  away  from  me, 

"Thou  shalt  be  happy,  love,  through  many  summers, 

And  I  will  love  thee,  hear  me,  Summer  Sea!" 

Thou  heard' st  the  vow,  O  gentle  Sea  of  Summer! 
Thou  heard' st  it  laughing  in  the  morning  ray, 
Thou  knewest  well  that  Love,  the  earliest  comer, 
Is  very  prone  to  make  the  shortest  stay;      • 
The  sign  dried  up  beneath  the  rays  of  morning, 
The  vow  found  wings  as  fast  and  far  to  flee, 
Now,  I  prefer  my  sleep  at  daylight's  dawning, 
To  wandering  on  thy  shores,  O  Summer  Sea! 


and,  in  the 


iolm 

John  B  Wood  was  born  in  Lebanon,  Me.,  Dec.  7, 1827.  His  parents  removed 
Fal?s N  H after  John  had  received  his  education  at  the  district  schools,  ana  in  i.i« 
Kennebunk  Academy.  His  father  desired  he  should  *™*»^^j££SSiSS& 
in  view  put  Blackstone  and  Kent  into  his  hands.  He  took  a  liking  to  the  &*£***&»* 
of  the  latter,  and  then  was  induced  to  enter  a  printing  office  and  learn  that  trade,  bub- 
sequentlv  he  worked  in  the  offices  of  the  Dover  Gazette,  Dover  Knquirer,  Mornmy  Mar, 
and  in  offices  in  Concord,  Boston  and  elsewhere.  In  1847  he  started  the  Thursday 
SkeMier  at  Great  Falls.  Three  years  afterwards  he  went  to  New  York  City  and  began 
his  long  career  as  a  journalist.  At  the  time  of  his  death,  which  occurred  m  1886  Mr. 
Wood  was  attached  to  the  editorial  staff  of  the  New  York  Herald.  A  book  from  his 
pen  entitled  "  The  Wharves  of  New  York  at  Midnight,"  was  in  press  at  his  decease. 


THE  WORTH  OF  BAUBLES. 

A  sailor  on  an  iceberg,  lone, 
Afloat  within  the  frigid  zone, 
Mid  Alps  of  ice  and  icing  snow, 
Where  winds  that  chill  forever  blow, 
Sank  helpless,  under  torpor  given 
By  icebergs  'neath  the  polar  heaven. 

And  as  he  sank,  he  spied  afar 

A  thing  that  glittered  as  a  star, 

And,  scrambling  o'  er  the  slimy  ice, 

Grasped  the  great  diamonds  of  rich  price, 

And  rusty  gold,  of  value  rare, 

The  record  of  some  shipwreck  there. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"Ha!  ha!"  he  cried,  " and  these  shall  give 
The  warmth  and  bread  I  need  to  live ! 
These,  these  in  princely  hands  shall  gleam 
While  I  rejoice  on  fortune's  stream! 
But,  heavens !  there  are  no  princes  here  I 
This,  this  is  worse  than  worthless  gear! 

"  Were  diamonds  charred  to  coke  again, 

And  gold  but  lire,  Promethean, 

Then  I  could  make  a  royal  turn! 

O  how  I'd  have  these  brilliants  burn! 

But,  here  are  diamonds,  icy  cold; 

Here  is  not  warmth,  nor  bread,  but  gold!" 

In  anger  and  contempt  he  threw 

Those  jewels  into  ocean's  blue, 

And  sank  upon  the  ice,  and  then 

Relapsed  into  despair  again; 

E'en  while  world's  wealth  lay  at  his  side 

He  sank,  and  of  starvation  died. 


COURAGE  FOREVER. 

What  we  do,  let's  do  with  boldness; 

What  we  know,  let's  speak  for  aye! 
And  respect  naught  for  its  oldncss 

If  it  be  not  right  to-day. 

What  is  right,  with  will  is  power; 

Truth  is  truth,  and  must  prevail; 
And  true  courage  for  an  hour 

Often  is  of  great  avail. 

Naught  is  gained  by  coward  groaning 
Under  each  mishap  and  ill; 

Give  us  men  not  always  moaning 

Men  of  nerve  and  iron  will. 

Firmly  stand  to  Freedom's  calling, 

Battling  to  defend  the  right- 
Fainting  not  though  scenes  appalling 
Startle  others'  timid  sight. 


SUSAN  8 MITE  NAtiON. 


_      S«tUk 

This  lady  was  born  in  the  town  of  Westbrook— Saccarappa — Jan.  17,  1828,  and  there 
most  of  her  childhood  was  passed.  At  an  early  age  she  was  sent  to  the  seminary  at  Gor- 
ham.  Me.,  where  young  pupils  could  receive  a  common-school  education  before  entering 
upon  a  higher  course  of  study.  She  was  always  glad  when  "  composition  week  "  came, 
simply  because  it  was  much  easier  to  write  a  transposition,  or  essay  upon  any  given  sub 
ject  than  to  translate  Latin  fables,  or  to  parse  '•  Paradise  Lost,''  even.  Knowing  this, 
perhaps,  the  Principal  of  that  institution  advised  her  to  become  an  author;  but,  having  a 
decided  preference  for  music,  and  better  qualified  for  that  work,  it  was  finally  adopted 
as  a  profession,  though  supplemented  by  occasional  contributions  to  the  press.  As  most 
of  this  work  was  in  the  form  of  stories,  book  reviews,  etc.,  it  can  readily  be  inferred 
that  the  few  poems  which  have  now  and  then  appeared  from  her  pen  were  sent  adrift  on 
the  sea  of  literature  not  as  poetry  in  the  true  sense  of  that  word,  but  rather  as  the  out 
come  of  some  thought  or  feeling  that  found  expression  in  a  poetictil  form,  perhaps,  and 
thus  won  their  way  into  that  special  department  of  light  reading  known  as  the  "Poet's 
Corner." 

RETROSPECTION. 

On  the  shore  of  isle-gemmed  Casco  Bay 

Stately  and  fair  to  see, 
Stands  the  beautiful  city  that  I  love; — 

0  Queen  of  the  Bay  is  she ! 

Level  and  wide  are  her  pleasant  streets, 

Overshadowed  in  summer  days 
By  oak  and  maple,  and  grand  old  elms, 
Through  whose  green  branches  the  sunlight  sends 

Its  shimmering,  golden  rays. 

But  now  are  city  and  sea  and  wold 

Embalmed  in  a  light  divine, 
That  shines  o'er  woodland  and  vine-clad  hills 
While  smiling  Ceres  her  chalice  fills 

To  the  brim  with  ruby  wine. 

Grand  and  stately  her  public  hall, 

And  the  churches  of  worship,  where 
Through  aisle  and  chancel  glad  anthems  ring, 
While  votive  gifts  God's  people  bring 

To  the  altar  of  praise  and  prayer. 
******* 

I  remember  a  summer  fair  and  bright 

As  the  roseate  flush  of  dawn, 
When  the  beautiful  things  of  earth  did  lie 
Under  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky, 

With  the  light  of  heaven  thereon. 

And  lo!  on  Mem'ry's  storied  page 

Are  pictures  quaintly  set; 
While  forms  familiar,  and  faces  rare, 
And  the  welcome  footsteps  on  the  stair— 

1  see,  and  hear  them  yet. 


370  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE 


But  O,  the  story  I  might  have  told! 

The  romance  that  came  to  be— 
What  time  the  roses  were  all  abloom 
Till  they  drooped  011  the  passionate  heart  of  June — 

The  light  of  my  life  to  me ! 

That  light  has  faded  and  fled  for  aye; 

On  the  desolate  shore  I  stand; 
For  a  ship  went  over  the  Western  sea, 
And  a  grave  is  all  that  remains  to  me — 

A  grave  in  a  foreign  land. 

And  now,  though  years  have  passed  away, 

I  oft  hear,  as  of  yore, 
The  muffled  roar  of  the  busy  street, 
The  ceaseless  patter  of  hurrying  feet 

That  passed  my  open  door. 

And  oft  I  seem  to  see  and  hear 

The  sea  at  night,  and  the  curlews  call; 
While  over  the  city  that  lies  asleep 
The  stars  their  silent  vigils  keep, 

With  God's  peace  over  all. 


ESTRANGED. 

We  stood  beside  the  flowing  river, 

My  love  and  I; 
A  stately  ship  with  flag  and  pennons  flying 

Went  sailing  by. 

Low  in  the  Eastern  skies  a  golden  crescent 

Shone  like  a  star; 
While  zephyrs  soft,  with  incense  sweetly  laden, 

Came  from  afar. 

We  spoke  of  by-gone  days,  of  friends  departed 

To  their  long  rest; 
Of  a  lone  grave  by  kindly  strangers  tended 

In  the  far  West. 

Of  this  and  that  theology  and  ism, 

Science  and  art, 
We  calmly  spoke  as  if  no  wide  abysm 

Held  us  apart. 


SUSAN  SMITH  NASON.  371 


Of  this  and  that;— of  things  we  little  cared  for, 

All  had  their  share ; 
But  ah,  the  tender  words  we  might  have  spoken 

Found  no  expression  there. 

The  moonlit  bay,  the  night  in  all  its  beauty 

•  Before  us  lay  unseen ; 
We  only  felt  how  sure  and  near  the  ending 
Of  our  love-dream ; — 

Of  hopes  that  might  have  made  our  separation 

Less  hard  to  bear, 
Though  years  should  pass  ere  we  two,  reunited, 

One  home  could  share. 

The  hours  sped  on,  then  with  her  colors  flying, 
The  ship  but  touched  the  land;— 

One  mute  embrace— the  last— and  I  was  praying- 
Alone  upon  the  strand. 


A  NEW  ERA. 

"What  shall  the  harvest  be"  in  this  new  cycle  ? 

Ah,  who  can  say  ? 
What  valiant  deeds  shall  mark  the  coming  era, 

Or  work  begun  to-day  ? 

For  men  have  many  ways  to  solve  life's  problem; 

Some  trust  to  chance — or  fate ; 
While  others,  on  the  "promised  word"  relying, 

Bravely  work  on  and — wait! 

Your  brother  reaps  and  gathers  in  his  harvest, 

And  deems  his  part  complete; 
While  you  with  patient  hands  are  deftly  sifting 

Tares  from  the  wheat. 

What  though  your  friend  has  won  the  cross  of  honor 

In  one  short  night, 
While  you  with  aching  feet  are  slowly  toiling 

From  height  to  height  ? 

What  though  to  win  a  cause  for  which  you've  labored 

Early  and  late, 
You  give,  bu*  give  in  vain — a  lifetime  service, 

Its  truth  to  vindicate  ? 


THE  POET*  OF  MAINE. 


Be  not  dismayed,  nor  deem  your  labor  wasted, 

"  Take  heart  of  grace; " 
Not  always  to  the  strong  belongs  the  battle, 
Nor  to  the  swift  the  race. 

Shall  not  the  noble  deeds  here  unrecorded 

By  pen  or  tongue 
In  His  great  Book,  wherein  all  things  are  written, 

Be  numbered,  one  by  one  ? 

Remember  this,  ye  who  are  daily  striving 

With  heart  and  hand, 
By  word  and  act  some  kindly  means  devising 

To  help  your  brother  man. 

O  tried  and  true !  who  sit  in  earth's  high  places 

To  do  the  peoples'  will, 
Let  time  record  on  history's  future  pages 

Some  great  design  fulfilled. 

And  while  our  "Ship  of  State"  is  onward  sailing 

Upon  time's  flowing  sea, 
O,  let  the  colors*  at  her  mast-head  flying 

Your  true  credentials  be. 


alker 

John  W.  May  was  born  in  Winthrop,  January,  1828,  and  is  the  son  of  the  late  Hon 
Seth  May,  who  was  for  many  years  Associate  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Maine' 
John  \\  .  is  a  graduate  of  Bowdoin  College,  class  of  1852,  and  the  first  year  after  leavino- 
college  he  was  an  instructor  in  Baltimore,  Md..  in  what  was  styled  Newton  University* 
He  then  pursued  legal  studies  with  his  father,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1855  and 
entered  upon  professional  practice  in  Winthrop.  In  18b"5  lie  removed  to  Lewiston  where 
ne  has  an  office,  and  resides  in  Auburn.  He  has  held  the  position  of  register  in  bank 
ruptcy;  is  much  liked  by  the  members  of  the  An.lroscoggin  Bar  for  his  genial  character 
istics,  and  at  their  request  published  a  unique  volume  of  legal  and  local  reminiscences 
in  1884.  under  the  title,  "Inside  the  Bar."  This  book  contains  verses  of  artistic  merit' 
as  well  as  humorous  and  rollicking  lines,  and  is  a  very  acceptable  addition  to  the  litera 
ture  of  Maine.  Air.  May  was  married,  in  1869,  to  Harriet  Blaine  daughter  of  Dr  H. 
L.  K.  Wiggin.  of  Auburn. 


OUR  AUBURN. 

Ours  is  a  city,  but  not  by  the  sea 

Where  the  stately  ships  sail  by, 
Where  the  blue  waves  dance  when  the  winds  are  free, 

And  the  yachts  like  sea-gulls  fly. 


*  The  colors  that  float  from  the  mast-head  should  be  the  credentials  of  our  seamen.— 


HENRY  CLAY 


JOHN  WALKER  MAY.  373 


Ours  is  a  city  remote  from  the  shore 

Where  the  thundering'  surges  break 
O'er  jagged  rocks  with  a  deaf'ning  roar, 

Till  the  deep  foundations  shake. 

Nor  dwell  we  where  the  mountains  grand 

Lift  up  to  the  vaulted  sky 
Their  lofty  summits  o'erlooking  the  land 

Where  our  possessions  lie. 

But  the  river  is  ours,  and  it  flows  serene 

Through  a  landscape  passing  fair; 
By  its  winding  shores  the  valleys  are  green, 

And  they  smile  with  the  husbandman's  care. 

And  though  but  a  remnant  remains  to-day 

Of  the  forests  that  gloomed  around 
In  the  ancient  time,  and  stretched  away 

To  the  far  horizon's  bound; 

Yet  scattered  groups  by  river  and  hill 

Of  the  dark  green  pines  of  old 
Are  blending  their  sombre  shadows  still 

In  the  picture  we  behold. 

Shadows  unchanged,— though  the  maple  wroods 

Are  changing  their  emerald  hues 
To  crnrson  and  gold,  and  the  sunshine  floods 

Their  banners  with  glories  profuse. 

Behold,  what  vistas  on  either  shore 

Of  the  beautiful  river  unveil ! 
How  the  waters  reflect  as  they  flow  evermore 

Panoramas  whose  charms  never  fail. 

The  grandeur  is  ours  of  the  cataract,  too, 

When  the  river  leaps  up  in  its  might 
With  a  torrent  uncurbed  and  terrific  to  view, 

And  a  voice  like  the  thunder  at  night; 

Gathering  volume  and  force  as  it  bounds  o'er  the  rocks 

Far  down  to  the  chasm  below; 
Foaming  white  in  its  vengeance  which  maddens  and  mocks 

At  all  barriers  opposed  to  its  flow. 

Here  nestling  cosily  down  by  the  bank 

Our  city  lies  with  the  falls  in  view, 
And  suburbs  close  to  their  western  flank 

And  the  gorge  where  the  floods  pass  through. 


374  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

And  the  elms  and  the  maples  line  each  street, 
And  the  spires  mount  up  to  the  sky, 

While  the  western  heights  with  the  oak  woods  greet 
And  captivate  the  eye. 

Who  shall  say  that  our  words  proclaim 
But  a  boast  which  the  truth  belies  ? 

No  fairer  town  with  a  beautiful  name 
Is  under  New  England  skies. 


THE  ADVENT  OF  THE  SNOW. 

Again  ye  come,  ye  feathery  forms 

Of  the  white  untrodden  snow; 
Shaken  from  wings  of  the  mountain  cloud, 
Ye  cover  the  earth  with  a  crystal  shroud, 

And  ye  bring  us  merriment  now. 

Ye  come — O  how  softly  at  first  ye  come, 

Bright  messengers  from  the  sky ! 
I  watch  your  coming,  but  listen  in  vain 
For  the  rustle  of  wings  at  the  window  pane, 

As  your  marshaled  hosts  go  by. 

Ye  fall  in  the  nooks  where  the  violets  bloomed, 

Through  the  leafless  boughs  ye  sift, 
And  ye  load  the  arms  of  the  evergreens  down, 
With  a  clustering  load  as  they  struggle  and  groan 

'Neath  the  stress  of  the  fleecy  drift. 

For  the  winds  are  hushed,  and  ye  gather  and  cling 

Wherever  ye  chance  to  alight, — 
On  trellis  and  post  and  garden  wall, 
Assuming  shapes  grotesque  and  tall, 

Like  the  frost-spirit's  imps  at  night. 

And  the  brown  hills  sleep  'neath  the  counterpane  white, 

Which  ye  spread  the  wide  waste  o'er: 
But  ye  force  from  my  heart  a  sorrowful  sigh, 
As  ye  strew  the  grave  mounds  white  where  lie 

The  dear  ones  gone  before. 

Whence  do  ye  come,  O  beautiful  flakes ! 

And  where  is  your  crystalline  home  ? 
Are  ye  wrought  in  the  sky  where  ye  silently  rove, 
Or  wafted  to  earth  from  some  heaven  above, 

Whence  types  of  the  beautiful  come  ? 


JOHN  WALKER  MAY.  375 


Are  ye  born  of  the  ocean  mists  afar, 

Are  ye  flung  from  the  wide  sea's  foam  ? 
Or  is  it  from  realms  of  the  polar  night 
Ye  have  taken  your  long  and  wearisome  flight, — 
Tell  me  whence  do  ye  come  ? 

What  mission  is  yours  from  the  upper  skies, 

What  message  to  earth  do  ye  bring  ? 
Have  ye  no  lesson,  nought  to  say 
Of  the  Power  that  works  in  such  wonderful  way 

To  fashion  each  crystalline  wing  ? 

We  know  that  your  delicate  workmanship 

Is  frail  and  ephemeral  too, — 
That  the  sparkling  bars  in  each  crystal  thread, 
Soon  trampled  and  crushed  by  a  thoughtless  tread, 

Are  lost  to  our  idle  view. 

Do  ye  teach  us  thus  the  glories  will  fade, 

Of  that  far-off,  unseen  world ; 
To  whose  portal  bright  beyond  the  skies 
We  yearningly  strain  our  mortal  eyes 

For  a  glimpse  of  the  light  unfurled  ? 

Ah,  no,  not  such  the  lesson  ye  bring, 

Bright  messengers  from  the  sky! 
Though  the  fashion  of  earth  dissolve  and  pass 
From  our  clouded  view,  like  withering  grass, 

We  know,  in  that  world  on  high, 

That  decay  and  death  and  change  prey  not 

On  the  treasures  there  in  store; 
And  we  wait  with  a  love  that  cannot  wait  , 

To  press  dear  hands  grown  chill  of  late, 

Which  beckon  from  the  shining  shore. 


OUR  CHRISTMAS. 
u  A  merry  Christmas,"  did  you  say? 

Ah,  such  it  were  if  one  wee  face 
Could  answer  back  our  smiles  to-day, 
And  lisp  papa,  mamma!    But  nay, 

With  us  there  is  a  vacant  place. 

That  little  chair,  a  year  ago, 

Held  its  sweet  treasure  at  our  board ; 
It  hath  been  vacant  months,  we  know, 
But  yet  to-day  it  grieves  us  so 

We  cannot  speak  one  merry  word. 


376  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Only  a  year!     We  had  no  thought 

So  brief  would  be  the  baby's  stay; 
Her  little  hands  flew  up  and  caught 
The  joy  with  which  our  hearts  were  fraught, 
On  that  her  only  Christmas  day. 

Where  art  thou,  darling  of  our  love  ? 

What  merry  Christmas  now  is  thine  ? 
Do  kindred  arms  in  heaven  above 
Enfold  thee  with  a  parent's  love 

And  clasp  thee,  child  of  mine  ? 

If  thou  art  happy,  why  not  we  ? 

Here  joy  and  grief  sit  side  by  side 
To  join  the  general  jubilee. 
Ah,  yes!  but  still  our  thoughts  must  be 

Of  one  not  here  this  Christmas-tide. 


jjiygltton  (jjiiksmith. 


Appleton  Oaksmith,  son  of  Seba  Smith  ("Major  Jack  Downing")  and  Elizabeth  Oakes 
Smith,  was  born  March  22.  1828,  in  Portland,  Me.  His  paveius  removed  to  New  York 
when  he  was  twelve  years  of  age.  He  followed  the  sea  in  oailv  l:i'e  and  was  a  brave  and 
gallant  commander.  He  afterward  carried  on  a  shipping  business  ri  New  York,  and  dur 
ing  that  time  lost  a  fortune  in  lending  assistance  to  tlie  Cuban  patriots  He  removed  to 
North  Carolina  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  where  he  represented  his  county  in  the 
General  Assembly,  and  tilled  many  local  offices  of  trust,  and  was  always  a  leading  man 
in  his  section.  He  was  possessed  of  great  beauty  of  person  and  most  agreeable  man 
ners,  always  making  many  warm  friends  everywhere.  He  wrote  many  sketches  and  sto 
ries,  and  many  poems  that  have  been  highly  praised  by  the  critics.  His  poem  called 
"  Maggie  Bell"  was  greatly  admired,  and  has  been  reprinted  many  times.  He  died  Oct. 
26,  1887,  and  was  buried  at  his  old  home -Holly  wood,  Carteret  Co.,  North  Carolina. 


THE  LITTLE  STRAW  HAT. 

We  all  of  us  have  our  secret  hoard 

Of  things  that  we  cherish  and  tenderly  prize- 
Things  that  are  neither  of  value  or  rare, 
Or  for  which  any  one  else  would  care, 
Yet  priceless  to  us — and  we  keep  them  stored 

Far  from  the  sight  of  all  other  eyes. 

I  have  one  treasure  among  my  store, 
Which  is  dearer  than  all  of  the  rest  to  me ! 

You  will  smile  mayhap  with  unbelief, 

Unless  you  have  had  the  self-same  grief; 

For  the  trifles  of  those  who  are  no  more, 
The  loved  and  the  lost  grow  precious  to  be. 


APPLETON  OAKSMITH.  377 


Would  you  know  what  it  is,  so  dear  to  my  eyes, 

And  what  so  often  will  make  them  dim  ? 
For  it  brings  to  mind  the  dear  little  head 
That  so  long  has  slept  with  the  loved  ones  dead, 
'Tis  nothing — this  thing  that  I  so  much  prize — 
But  a  little  straw  hat  with  a  ragged  brim. 

I  often  unlock  the  closet  door 

And  bring  it  tenderly  forth  to  the  light; 

The  ribbon  is  faded,  'tis  torn  and  old, 

But  no  one  could  buy  it  with  gold  untold; 

And  many  a  time  on  the  chamber  floor 
I  have  wept  and  kissed  it  half  the  night. 

I  love  it  only  as  a  mother  can  love 

The  simple  things  of  her  little  dead ; 
I  prize  it  as  only  a  mother  can  prize 
The  things  so  worthless  in  other  eyes; 
For  it  symbols  the  crown  that  I  know  above 

Covers  the  little  one's  head. 

With  streaming  eyes  I  can  often  see 

The  sweet  little  face  in  the  sunlight  glow, 
Looking  forth  from  the  ragged  brim 
With  the  saucy  glance— so  sweet  in  him, 
When  he  used  to  romp  in  the  grass  with  me, 
In  the  summers  so  long  ago. 

The  little  one  had  his  holiday  dress, 
With  a  hat  that  was  very  fine  and  grand ; 

But  it  never  to  me  was  half  so  dear 

As  the  one  I  have  cherished  for  many  a  year, 

For  my  lips  the  very  spot  can  press 
Where  '  t  was  torn  by  the  little  hand. 

I  have  diamonds  rare,  and  many  a  gem, 
With  which  sometimes  my  hair  I  trim, 

When  forth  in  the  world  I  am  forced  to  go, 

To  mix  with  the  mockery  and  show: 

But  there's  none  that  I  prize — not  all  of  them — 
Like  the  little  straw  hat  with  the  ragged  brim. 

We  are  told  that  earth's  treasures  we  must  not  hoard, 
Where  moth  doth  corrupt  and  rust  doth  dim; 

Yet  this  is  but  a  memento  I  love 

Of  the  priceless  treasure  I  have  above ; 

It  is  not  for  it  my  tears  are  poured — 

This  little  straw  hat  with  the  ragged  brim. 

26 


378 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


CHANGE. 
My  lady-love  so  cold  has  grown 

I  cannot  meet  her  eye 
But  that  my  heart  sinks  like  a  stone, 

And  I  but  wish  to  die. 
There  was  a  time  when  her  dear  glance 

Was  warmer  than  the  sun; 
But  now  my  love  hath  little  chance 

For  hope  to  dwell  upon. 

"  Why  hath  she  changed  ?"    I  ask  the  winds 

Which  pass  me  kindly  by; 
But  each  dead  leaf  the  cause  reminds. 

And  all  things  make  reply. 
I  wander  in  the  woods  at  eve, 

And  watch  the  dead  leaves'fall, 
And  chide  myself  that  I  should  grieve 

For  what  doth  come  to  all. 

"Change,  change,"  is  written  >  very  where 

Upon  the  earth  and  sky; 
We  breathe  it  with  life's  morning  air, 

We  live  it  when  we  die. 
Then  wherefore  should  I  grieve  that  she 

Acteth  so  well  her  part, 
Since  greater  change  can  never  be 

Than  in  a  woman's  heart! 

FORGET  ME  NOT. 
I  walked  aclown  the  garden  walk 

To  bid  my  love  good-bye, 
And  as  I  passed  the  rose's  stalk, 

What  should  my  eyes  espy 
But,  nestled  like  a  brooding  dove 

In  some  sequestered  spot, 
The  very  thing  I  told  my  love— 

A  dear  "Forget-me-not!" 

I  stooped  and  plucked  the  little  flower; 

He  said,  "What  do  you  seek?" 
I  answered,  "In  the  twilight  hour 

Let  this,  love,  for  me  speak  ?" 
I  twined  it  softly  in  his  breast, 

His  arms  were  round  me  furled, 
And  as  I  leaned  upon  his  breast 

He  said  I  was  "  his  world." 


APPLKTON  OAKSMITIi.  379 

His  sword  was  girt  upon  his  thigh, 

His  plume  waved  in  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  twilight  seemed  to  sigh 

Among  the  garden  trees ! 
1  looked  into  his  eyes  and  felt 

As  happy  as  maidens  feel, 
When  first  two  loving  spirits  melt 

In  one,  for  woe  or  weal. 

He  drew  me  closer  to  his  heart, 

My  hand  was  on  his  breast; 
He  said,  "  My  love!  though  now  we  part, 

This  heart  can  never  rest 
Until  I  bring  you  back  your  flower, 

And  claim,  where  now  we  stand, 
In  some  sweet  future  twilight  hour, 

This  darling  little  hand." 

These  were  the  words  I  heard  him  say — 

The  last  I  ever  heard ! 
I  saw  him  slowly  ride  away, 

While  not  a  step  I  stirred. 
I  could  not  move  —I  saw  him  turn 

And  kiss  his  hand  to  me, 
Ah !  how  my  spirit  then  did  yearn 

For  what  would  never  be. 

This  little  casket  that  I  wear 

The  rest  can  better  tell— 
A  withered  flower— a  lock  of  hair, 

A  blood-stained  word,  "Farewell!" 
They  buried  him  upon  the  field, 

Upon  the  battle-plain, 
And  life  to  me  can  never  yield 

A  comfort  to  my  pain. 

[  often,  at  the  twilight  hour, 

Steal  down  the  garden  walk, 
Where  once  I  plucked  the  little  flower 

Beneath  the  rose's  stalk; 
And  when  I  reach  the  wicker  gate. 

And  no  one  else  is  nigh, 
I  almost  think  I  see  him  wait, 

As  then,  to  say  "Good-bye." 


380  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  sometimes,  when  the  shadows  creep 

Along  the  garden-wall, 
I  hear  a  voice  which  makes  me  weep 

Out  of  the  darkness  call; 
It  seems  to  say,  as  still  I  stand 

Upon  the  same  old  spot, 
"I'm  waiting  for  that  little  hand, 

My  dear — Forget-me-not!" 


BOOT  AND  SADDLE. 

Boot  and  saddle!  the  bugles  ring: 

Boot  and  saddle! 

Come,  comrades,  from  your  slumbers  spring, 
The  drums  are  beating  from  wing  to  whig, 
The  bugle  the  morn  is  welcoming!— 
But  a  different  welcome  the  night  will  bring 

To  those  who  boot  and  saddle. 

Boot  and  saddle !  the  Captain  cries  : 

Boot  and  saddle ! 

He  dreams  not  now  of  his  lady's  eyes; 
Perchance  he  dreams  that  the  foeman  flies, 
And  hears  Fame's  morning  trumpet-cries! — 
But  night  will  bring  him  Fame's  disguise: 

He'll  no  more  boot  and  saddle. 


Boot  and  saddle!  the  Sergeants  shout: 

Boot  and  saddle ! 

The  mom  has  put  niglit's  lanterns  out: 
"The  foe!  the  foe!"  hoarse  bawls  the  scout, 
Riding  all  bloody  to  the  redoubt:— 
He  never  will  see  that  foeman' s  rout; 

He  '11  no  more  boot  and  saddle. 

Boot  and  saddle!  the  troopers  roar: 

Boot  and  saddle ! 

Dream  no  more  of  the  girls  you  adore; 
'T  will  be  but  a  day  that  they'll  deplore 
The  lads  who  campward  will  ride  110  more, 
When  this  day's  iron  storm  is  o'er; 

Who  '11  no  more  boot  and  saddle. 


SAMUEL  JOHN  PIKE. 


ji*wwf*f 

S.  J.  Pike  was  a  native  of  Newbury,  Mass.,  born  April  23,  1828.  He  graduated  at  Bow- 
doin  College  in  1847,  in  the  class  that  furnished  several  distinguished  civil  engineers, 
among  whom  we  may  mention  Clias.  W.  Barrett,  formerly  engineer  in  Portland,  I.  S.  Met- 
calf,  who  has  been  connected  with  various  railroads,  and  Henry  I).  Whitcomb,  of  East- 
port,  now  chief  engineer  of  the  famous  Kanawha  Co.  Mr.  Pike  was  one  of  the  finest 
poets  that  any  Maine  college  has  educated.  After  leaving  Bowdoin,  he  went  to  Dover, 
N.  H.,  and  following  in  the  steps  of  his  father,  a  well-known  teacher  of  his  day,  gave 
himself  to  the  same  calling.  He  remained  some  five  years  in  Dover,  and  while  there 
wrote  and  published  in  the  New  York  Literary  American  several  poems  of  great  merit, 
among  which  was  "  The  Better  Land."  From  Dover  he  went  to  New  York,  and  was 
employed  by  Mason  and  Brothers  as  critic  and  translator.  He  held  a  tutorship  in  Bow 
doin  College  in  1852-53,  was  head  master  of  several  High  Schools,  and  delivered  orations 
on  Commencement  and  other  occasions.  His  death  occurred  in  Boston,  Nov.  6,  1861. 


THE   BETTER   LAND. 

Toiling  pilgrims,  faint  and  weary,  lift  we  up  our  tearful  eyes 
To  the  radiant  bourn  and  blissful,  whitherward  our  journey  lies; 
To  a  land  on  .groping  Reason  glimmering  dimly  and  afar, 
While  to  Faith's  clear  gaze  it  shineth  like  a  fixed,  unwaning  star. 

There  no  blinding  beams  of  noontide  on  the  vision  flash  and  glow: 
Shrouded  midnight  never  cometh  with  her  foot-falls  hushed  and  slow, 
But  undarkening  brilliance  floateth  on  the  waves  of  holy  air, 
Kindled  by  the  smile  eternal,  which  our  Father  deigns  to  wear. 

There  the  verdure  f adeth  never,  and  the  odors  never  die ; 
There  beneath  imwilting  blossoms  piercing  thorns  may  never  lie ; 
Music,  softer  and  diviner  than  from  earthly  lyres  hath  rolled, 
Through  angelic  utterance  breaketh,  and  from  quivering  cords  of  gold. 

In  the  greenness  of  the  meadows,  sweet  still  waters  smile  and  sleep, 
Round  whose  fragrant,  rosy  margin  countless  angels  vigils  keep 
Over  souls  by  sin  untainted,  by  temptation  purified, 
Who  through  grief  and  patience  strengthened  in  beatitude  abide, 

Like  a  dove  of   snowy  plumage,  brooding  on  her  leafy  nest, 

Peace  in  sacred  beauty  resteth,  deep  in  every  saintly  breast; 

Hope  hath  found  the  dazzling  splendor  of  her  grandest  day  outshone, 

While  through  every  bosom  thrilleth  joy  that  sense  hath  never  known. 

Tears  that  tremble  on  the  lashes  in  affliction's  keenest  hours 
Were  as  dews  of  summer  evenings,  on  the  thirsty  lips  of  flowers, 
Vanishing,  when  daylight  cometh,  or  but  briefly  lingering, 
That  they  may  uncounted  jewels  round  the  glistening  blossoms  fling. 

Faith  to  sight  hath  been  perfected;  love  new  fervor  hath  attained; 
Ghostly  doubt  and  fear  have  perished  in  the  heart  where  once  they  reigned. 
Gleaming  crowns  adorn  each  forehead  by  the  thorns  of  sorrow  torn, 
And  he  wears  the  whitest  raiment  who  the  heaviest  cross  hath  borne. 


382  TIIK  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


We  from  that  fair  land  are  sundered  by  a  river  deep  and  wide, 
Whose  chill  waves  dash  nearer  to  us  like  an  ocean's  pulsing  tide ; 
Day  by  day,  beneath  the  billows  hosts  go  down,  who  rise  no  more 
Till  the  unreturning  current  bears  them  to  the  heavenly  shore. 

There,  in  mansions  God  hath  builded,  evermore  unperishing, 
Chant  they  hymns  of  loftiest  measure  to  their  Maker,  Saviour,  King, 
Who  in  mercy  hath  his  creatures  with  eternal  dwellings  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Wandering  pilgrims,  faint  and  weary,  lift  we  up  our  tearful  eyes, 
To  the  radiant  bourn  and  blissful,  whitherward  our  journey  lies; 
While  her  pinions  lithe  and  buoyant  Hope  unfurls  to  waft  the  soul 
From  the  depths  of  its  despondence  to  the  glories  of  its  goal. 


WmrU  Whwloik 

Henry  Wheelock  Ripley  was  born  in  Fryeburg,  Oxford  County,  Me.,  June  30  1828 
Was  educated  at  Fryeburg  Academy;  is  the  only  surviving  one  of  six  sons  of  the  late 
Gen.  James  Wheelock  Ripley,  a  native  of  Hanover,  N.  H.,  and  Member  of  Congress 
three  terms,  from  1826  to  1831,  from  the  2d  District  of  Maine,  and  Collector  of  Customs 
for  the  District  of  Eastport  and  Passamaquoddy  from  1831  to  1835  under  President  Jack 
son's  Administration;  a  nephew  of  Gen.  Eleazer  Wheelock  Ripley  of  the  War  of  1812 
who  fought  the  last  battle  between  the  United  States  and  England  atChippewa  and  Lun- 
dy's  Lane  in  1814,  and  was  also  a  Member  of  Congress  from  the  New  Orleans  District  of 
Louisiana  from  1826  to  1832,  and  great-grandson  of  Eleazer  Wheelock  founder  and  first 
President  of  Dartmouth  College  and  of  Wheelock's  Indian  School.  Removed  to  Port 
land,  Me.,  in  1844,  and  from  there  to  Charleston,  S.  C.,  in  1848.  In  1859,  before  the  break 
ing  out  of  the  late  Civil  War,  removed  again  to  Portland.  In  politics  like  his  ancestors 
the  Wheelocks,  Ripleys  and  Osgoods,  a  life-long  Democrat  of  the  Jeffersonian-Jackson 

NORTH  CONWAY. 

Brightest  of  gems  that  nestle  'mong  the  hills, 
Whose  fadeless  beauties  shine  on  every  hand; 

I  see  thee  'midst  the  touch  of  summer's  smile, 
Breathing  in  fragrance  sweet  o'er  all  the  land. 

Behold  thy  mountains  lifting  high  their  heads, 
To  catch  the  glowing  light  of  early  dawn; 

While  every  charm  that  fills  the  human  soul, 
Comes  stealing  o'er  the  glories  of  the  morn. 

The  lovely  valley  sleeps  in  sweet  repose, 
The  hum  of  busy  life  is  hushed  and  still ; 

No  sounds  discordant  fill  the  listening  ear, 
Or  dim  the  songs  that  come  from  every  hill. 


HENRY  WBEELOCK  EIPLEY.  383 


O  nature  fair !  thine  everlasting  hand, 

Here  gives  the  light  and  glory  of  thy  charms; 

And,  like  a  loving  mother  for  her  child, 

With  true  devotion  clasps  thee  to  her  arms. 

Farewell!  when  life's  short  race  is  done, 
And  all  of  brightest  earthly  scenes  are  o'er, 

O  may  I  catch  one  distant  gleam  of  thee, 
In  lingering  love  from  out  the  silent  shore. 

WHEN  WRAPPED  IN  DREAMS. 

When  wrapped  in  dreams  at  night's  still  hour, 

In  visions  bright  I  see 
The  glowing  light  of  by-gone  years 

Return  once  more  to  me. 

A  lingering  love  is  mine  again. 

To  live  each  bright  scene  o'er, 
And  stronger  bind  in  closer  ties 

The  loving  hearts  of  yore. 

To  see  each  face  and  look  the  same, 

With  hearts  to  friendship  true ; 
I  would  not  lose  a  world  of  old, 

To  change  it  for  a  new. 

And  yet,  methinks,  it  is  not  all 

Of  friendly  heart  or  love 
That  wafts  our  sweetest  blessings  here, 

From  that  bright  realm  above. 

Life  is  a  mystery  like  a  dream, 

Unfolding  every  hour, 
With  gleams  of  sunlight  peering  through 

The  softly  falling  shower. 

The  spring-time  gives  its  glowing  charms, 
And  summer's  sun  shines  bright; 

While  autumn's  moon  in  beauty  blends 
With  winter's  starry  night. 

The  world  in  which  we  live  and  move 

Is  ours  to  keep  in  trust, 
Until  we  lay  our  burdens  down, 

To  sleep  in  silent  dust. 

Hope  is  the  ever  shining  star 

That  guides  our  longing  sight; 
The  brightest  flower  within  the  heart 

Is  consciousness  of  right. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


MUSIC. 

There  is  a  power  which  God  has  given, 
Deep  buried  in  the  human  soul; 

It  gives  its  sweetness  like  the  flowers, 
Beyond  the  heart's  control. 

We  hear  it  in  our  infant  life, 
In  simple  song  on  mother's  knee; 

And  feel  its  tender,  soothing  touch, 
Through  all  her  love  and  constancy. 

'Tis  Music's  charm  that  leads  us  on, 
Amidst  the  din  of  earthly  strife ; 

And,  in  our  swift-declining  years, 
Brings  back  the  sunny  hours  of  life. 

We  love  it  in  the  waking  dawn, 
And  in  the  quiet  hours  of  night; 

It  lights  our  troubles  like  a  star, 
And  gives  the  heart  a  pure  delight. 

O  Music !  let  thy  loving  sounds 
In  all  thy  glorious  notes  be  given; 

And  may  this  sacred  gift  to  earth 
Be  ours  upon  the  harps  of  heaven. 


Alonzo  J.  Grover  was  born  in  Bethel,  Aug.  26.  1828.  His  father  was  a  farmer  though 
—according  to  a  sketch  in  "  The  History  of  Chicago,"  from  which  this  biography  is  con 
densed—attaining  to  some  military  preferment,  of  moderate  means  and  a  numerous 
family.  He  married  Miss  Sophronia  Bryant,  of  Portland,  a  distant  relative  of  the  poet 
of  that  name.  Alonzo  was  the  second  son  of  the  family,  a  boy  of  push,  who  after  pur 
chasing  his  time  of  his  father,  entered  Gould's  Academy  in  his  native  town  where  he 
fitted  himself  for  college  in  an  unusually  short  time.  He,  however,  decided  not  to  enter 
college,  and  on  leaving  the  academy  commenced  the  study  of  law  in  Bethel  and  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  Bar  at  Portland,  in  1853.  Becoming  deeply  interested  in  the  anti-slavery 
cause,  he  lectured  for  the  society  of  which  Win.  Lloyd 'Garrison  was  president  travel 
ing  through  the  New  England  States  lecturing  and  attending  conventions.  He 'formed 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  Garrison,  Wendell  Phillips,  Theodore  Parker,  Parker 
Pillsbury,  Samuel  J.  May,  and  all  the  principal  workers  in  the  anti-slavery  movement 
In  1853  he  removed  to  Illinois,  and  that  year  assisted  in  forming  the  first  Republican 
organization  in  his  county.  In  1855*  he  was  mobbed  at  Earlville  for  harboring  a  fugitive 
slave.  Besides  his  professional  work,  Mr.  Grover  writes  and  lectures  on  reformatory 
enterprises,  and  many  of  his  articles  have  been  published.  He  established,  and  for  some 
years  edited,  the  Earlville,  Transcript,  and  has  been  an  editorial  contributor  for  several 
years  to  the  Chicago  Sentinel,  and  other-publications.  He  was  the  author  of  the  famous 
plank  in  the  Republican  platform  of  1868,  against  repudiation,  etc.  aided  in  inaugurating 
what  is  known  as  the  Greenback  Party,  stumping  his  native  State.  With  his  own  hand 
he  knocked  in  the  head  of  the  first  barrel  of  rum  destroyed  under  the  "  Maine  Liquor 
Law  "  of  1851.  His  first  wife  was  Octavia  E.  Norton  also  a  native  of  Maine.  They  have 
four  sons,  the  eldest  of  whom  is  in  business  in  Chicago,  and  the  second  is  an  artist  of 
unusual  merit.  Mr.  G  rover's  home  is  now  at  Muscotah,  Kansas. 


ALONZO  JACKSON  G ROVER.  386 

LINES  FOR  A  SILVER  WEDDING.* 
The  clock  of  love  marks  five  and  twenty  years ; 

They  span  the  morning  and  the  noon  of  life ; 
They  hold  the  hopes,  the  fears,  the  joys,  the  tears, 

That  sum  up  life,  of  husband  and  of  wife. 

If  dreams  shall  fade  not,  but  change  into  truth, — 

If  hope  foresees,  and  tears  are  not  in  vain, — 
If  manhood  gain  the  high  ideal  of  youth, 

And  reach  the  lofty  heights  it  would  attain,— 

With  love  must  man's  ambition  be  inspired, 

And  love  must  fill  his  heart  full  to  the  brim; 
His  wife  must  be  all  that  his  soul  desired; 

Her  highest  hopes  must  be  fulfilled  in  him. 

When  passion  blind  shall  turn  to  purpose  pure, 
And  finest  gold  of  thought  be  purged  from  dross, 

'Tis  only  then  that  earthly  love  is  sure, 
And,  perfect  grown,  can  bear  earth's  sorest  loss. 

And  if  the  clock  of  love  shall  mark  again 

An  equal  span,  'twill  bring  the  golden  score; 
Though  youthful  strength  be  spent,  there  will  remain 

The  wealth  of  love  laid  up  by  them  in  store. 

When,  in  the  tranquil  eve  of  wedded  life, 
The  evening  shadows  on  your  path  grow  long, 

Cling  closer,  husband !  closer  nestle,  wife ! 
Long  years  of  constant  love  to  you  belong. 

As  steps  of  feeble  age  must  weaker  grow, 

And  brown  hair  turn  to  gray,  and  eyes  grow  dim, 

Love's  pure  and  steady  flame  will  brighter  glow, — 
Cling  to  her  closer !  closer  cling  to  him ! 

The  way  will  steeper  grow,  the  sun  sink  low, 
The  vale  of  years  grow  dim,  and  dark,  and  chill. 

Cling  closer  to  each  other  as  you  go 
Together  trudging  slowly  down  the  hill. 

The  clouds  from  gray  will  soon  to  crimson  turn, 

And  light  up  all  the  twilight  of  your  sky; 
The  gates  of  closing  day  will  "glow  and  burn 

As  hope  foretells  love's  immortality. 


1884 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  C.  C.  Warren,  of  Hillsdale,  111.,  on  their  Silver  Wedding-day,  March  10, 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  larger,  fuller  life  beyond  the  grave 
Eternal  mates  and  riper  love  shall  know, 

The  garnered  good  of  earthly  life  shall  save, 
The  ripened  fruitage  of  love  here  below. 


THE  SEASON  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

I  love  to  muse  these  pensive  days, 
The  Indian  summer  through, 

And  climb  the  hills  and  tread  the  ways 
In  boyhood's  haunts  anew. 

A  thousand  voices  of  the  air, 
The  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky, 

Enchanting  whisper  to  me  there, 
Like  spirits  from  on  high. 

The  falling  leaves  speak  mournfully, 

The  fading  flowers  sigh ; 
The  sea  pours  forth  grand  minstrelsy, 

Benignant  smiles  the  sky. 

The  beauteous  hills  bedeck  themselves 

In  scarlet,  gray  and  gold ; 
Green  laurel  droops  and  ivy  clings 

O'er  cragged  rocks  and  old. 

The  mountains  rise  in  grandeur  up 

Above  the  ocean's  beds, 
And  sombre  clouds  their  curtains  loop 

In  beauty  round  their  heads. 

The  birds  ring  out  their  parting  songsr 
The  brooks  run  laughing  by, 

The  squirrels  in  the  chestnut  woods 
Gather  their  stores  on  high. 

The  speckled  trout  and  darting  pike 

In  shallow  waters  spawn; 
The  bobolink's  metallic  notes 

Are  tinkling  in  'the  lawn. 

The  farmer  in  the  orchard  shakes 

The  golden  apples  down, 
Or  in  the  meadow  ample  ricks 

Of  gathered  hay  will  crown. 


MARC  EL  LA  MELVILLE  HALL  IIINES. 

The  partridge  on  his  drumming  log 
The  listening  sportsman  hears ; 

And  lo !  a  musket's  sharp  report, 
Resounding,  strikes  my  ears. 

I  see  and  hear  all  these,  and  more, 
Through  autumn's  dreamy  haze, 

And  long  to  drop  the  added  years 
Since  childhood's  happy  days. 


CONSTANCY. 
How  shall  I  tell  you,  dearest  Love, 

My  love  grows  stronger,  day  by  day; 
How  earth  beneath  and  sky  above 

Are  light  with  love's  divinest  ray  ? 

Thy  constant  heart  is  like  the  sun ; 

My  saddened  life  it  warms  and  cheers. 
Thy  changeless  love,  my  faithful  one! 

Revives  my  hopes  and  dries  my  tears. 

And  stronger  yet,  with  purer  flame, 
Our  love  shall  glow,  with  latest  breath ; 

While  fait' ring  lips  may  breathe  a  name, 
Or  snatch  love's  final  kiss  from  death. 

Shall  love  survive  when  lips  are  cold  ? 

When  fades  to  dust  the  rosy  cheek  ? 
'Tis  God's  great  secret,  yet  untold, 

Which  mortal  tongue  may  never  speak. 


Marcella  Melville  Hall  was  born  at  Hartford,  Me.,  Dec.  3,  1828.  She  was  married  to 
Joseph  W.  Hines,  Aug.  29,  1847,  and  spent  the  first  years  of  her  wedded  life  in  Boston, 
afterwards  returning  to  Aroostook.  She  has  three  children,  all  favorably  known  as 
ready  writers.  Her  father,  Winslow  Hall,  was  among  the  few  brave-hearted  men  who 
founded  the  "  Liberty  Party."  He  moved  to  that  part  of  Aroostook  now  known  as  Cari 
bou  in  1843.  Nearly  all  her  first  published  poems  found  place  in  the  Liberty  Standard, 
receiving  flattering  commendations  from  its  editor,  Austin  Willey;  she  also  wrote  for 
many  other  papers  and  magazines.  The  first  newspaper  in  Aroostook,  published  in 
Presque  Isle  in  1857,  received  generous  contributions  from  her  pen,  under  various  noms 
de  plume,  her  favorite  signature  being  "  Flora  Wildwood."  When  the  request  that  she 
would  take  her  place  among  the  "  Poets  of  Maine"  reached  her,  Mrs.  Hines  was  spend 
ing  the  winter  in  the  South;  hence  she  was  obliged  to  refer  the  matter  of  choice  among 
her  poems  to  her  daughters  who,  although  fulfilling  the  charge  to  the  best  of  their  abil 
ity,  yet  feel  that  a  better  selection  might  have  been  made  by  less  interested  persons. 
Nearly  all  of  her  poems  have  a  personal  significance  which  a  stranger  might  not  detect,, 
but  which  endears  them  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  know  the  incidents  which  called 
them  forth.  She  might,  if  she  would,  have  won  greater  fame  and  fortune  by  her  pen;, 
but,  possessed  of  a  retiring  disposition,  her  life  has  been  devoted  to  those  who  know 
and,  knowing,  love  her  best.  It  may  truly  be  said  of  her  that,  in  all  the  relations  of  life,, 
for  loving  friends  or  for  needy  strangers,  "She  hath  done  what  she  could." 


3*8  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


WHAT  IS  HOME  WITHOUT  A  MOTHER  ? 

Such  the  motto  fondly  chosen 

Only  yesterday— inwrought 
With  each  rain-bow  tinted  letter 

Brighter  hues  of  loving  thought. 
Home  was  always  home  with  mother, 

Could  there  be  a  truer,  better  ? 
Came  a  message,  anguish-fraught, 

Saying,  "Death  hath  claimed  thy  mother!" 

What  is  home  without  a  mother  ? 

What  is  sky  without  a  sun  ? 
What  is  ocean  without  water  ? 

What  is  life  when  death  hath  won  ? 
What  is  home  without  a  mother  ? 

Well  we  know,  who  have  sought  her 
Through  the  lone  rooms,  one  by  one, 

Home,  ah  me!  home  without  mother! 

Once  at  lightest  touch  of  sorrow, 

Grief  of  heart  or  care  of  brain, 
"Mother"  bore  the  balm  of  healing, 

Soothed  the  sorrow,  stilled  the  pain. 
Patient,  tender,  blessed  mother! 

Came  to  her  all  sad  hearts,  feeling 
They  would  not  ask  cheer  in  vain; 

Dear,  unselfish,  noble  mother ! 

Now,  like  avalanche  the  burden, 

And  we  cannot  hear  her  prayer, 
Feel  her  touch,  though  we  are  kneeling 

Close  beside  her  vacant  chair; 
O  my  mother!  O  my  mother! 

It  were  joy  beyond  revealing 
Could  we  see  her  sitting  there ! 

What  is  home  without  my  mother  ? 

Hush!  what  was  that  breath-like  whisper, 

What  those  words,  like  mother's  own  ? 
"Look  above  in  thy  beseeching, 

God  is  love  -  then  cease  to  moan." 
Brave,  pure-hearted  Christian  mother, 

By  her  life  such  lessons  teaching, 
She  shall  reap  as  she  hath  sown— 

Home  shall  be  in  heaven  with  mother. 


MARC  ELL  A  MELVILLE  HALL  HINES. 


CHURNING. 

AND    WHAT   BRIDGET   THOUGHT   ABOUT   IT. 

As  into  the  churn  fast  falleth  the  cream 
Every  drop  quite  alike  doth  seem, 
And  never,  amid  such  a  general  splutter, 
Can  I  tell  for  the  life  of  me  which  is  the  butter. 
So  I  fasten  the  cover,  and  lift  the  dash, 
And  smile  as  I  list  to  the  sullen  splash 
With  each  downward  sweep  of  that  merciless  lash- 
While  the  cream,  all  defenseless,  leaps  madly  away 
IFrom  the  rough,  cruel  blows  that  unceasingly  play! 
But  there's  no  escape,  though  it  rise  to  the  top 
Or  down  to  the  bottom  despairingly  drop; 
.For  a  ready  tormentor  is  on  its  track, 
And  sooner  or  later,  will  bring  it  back. 
Till,  tired  of  retreating,  the  mass  will  abide 
No  more  of  such  warfare,  all  on  one  side; 
And  angrily  mutters,  in  whisperings  low, 
•*'  No  more  of  such  pel  tings  will  I  undergo 
Submissively,  tamely— the  future  shall  tell 
If  blows  I  must  take,  I  can  give  them  as  well; 
Let  them  strike  if  they  choose,  they'll  recoil  from  the  fun, 
For  the  soft,  silly  buttermilk  only  will  run." 
Enough,  quite  enough,  take  the  dasher  away— 
What  was  cream  in  the  morning  is  butter  to-day. 

Just  so  with  the  world,  mused  I  in  my  turn, 
As  I  took  the  rich  butter  up  out  of  the  churn, 
My  soft  cream  thus  changed  to  so  solid  a  ball 
A  strong  hand  was  needed  to  mould  it  at  all, — 
Just  so  with  the  world,  small  odds  can  be  scanned, 
While  the  skies  are  unclouded,  the  breezes  are  bland 
Like  a  huge  jar  of  cream,  till  there  comes  an  hour 
Of  commotion,  fierce  trial  with  testing  power! 
And  then,  even  then  the  resemblance  holds  true, 
For  the  world  has  its  butter  and  buttermilk,  too, 
As  all  cream  is  not  butter,  so  in  the  world's  plan — 
The  moral  is  plain,  if  but  rightly  you  scann  : 
Society's  buttermilk  ne'er  makes  a  man! 


KISS  ME  BEFORE  YOU  GO. 
Your  path  lies  over  the  hillside, 

Out  in  the  rain  and  the  sleet, 
Out  in  the  world's  wild  turmoil 

Where  bustle  and  business  meet; 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  mine  by  the  noiseless  fireside, 
Where  the  fanciful  embers  glow 

With  a  curious,  life-like  motion, — 
Kiss  me  before  you  go ! 

My  quiet  way  will  be  haunted 

With  visions  none  other  can  see,  — 
Glances  more  precious  than  diamonds; 

Smiles  full  of  meaning  to  me; 
The  sound  of  a  welcome  footstep ; 

A  whisper  thrillingly  low:— 
Ah,  thought  will  clasp  memory  closely ! 

Kiss  me  before  you  go ! 

For  this  world  hath  a  thousand  mischancesr 

And  one  of  those  chances  may  fall 
That  we  two  ne'er  again  in  the  firelight 

Make  one  shadow  upon  the  wall! 
Then,  yet  once  more,  ere  the  parting, — 

Alas!  that  it  must  be  so — 
Leave  me  a  fond  benediction, 

Kiss  me  before  you  go ! 


SCANDAL. 

A  sallow  beldam,  from  whose  path 

All  sweet  flowers  shrink,  fearing  her  wrath; 

Withered  and  wrinkled,  too,  is  she, 

Like  apple  dried  upon  the  tree; 

Peaked  her  nose,  pointed  her  chin — 

Her  lips  close-drawn  and  very  thin, 

So  thin,  so  sharp  when  they  are  stirred, 

They're  keener  than  a  two-edged  sword; 

And  that  is  why,  as  logic  teaches, 

She  always  makes  such  cutting  speeches; — 

Her  words  glide  through  this  narrow  pass, 

A  strange,  distorted,  loathsome  mass, 

Creep  out  into  the  world,  fell  spies, 

Assuming  many  a  fair  disguise; 

And,  when  their  fraud  and  flattery 

Gain  of  one's  thoughts  the  entrance-key, 

Woe  to  that  trusting  human  soul 

Whose  armor  is  not  doubly  whole. 


SILVANUS  HAY  WARD.  391 


BUILD  UP  THE  WALL. 
Two  friends  there  were,  who  ever  shared 

Each  other's  care  and  pleasure, 
For  whom,  when  griefs  no  longer  spared, 

Love  filled  the  sinking  measure. 
Their  wishes,  dreams,  ambitions,  one, 

One  prayer  their  spirits  making — 
That  they  might  have,  when  night  came  on, 

One  sleep  and  one  awaking. 

A  foolish  thing,  that  forth  again 
A  look,  a  word  had  driven, 

Made  wider  distance  and  more  pain 
Than  death  each  tie  had  riven; 

What  though  their  paths  be  gloomy,  all, 
And  each  a  weary  rover  ? 

Build  higher  still  the  angry  wall- 
Let  neither  one  look  over. 


apward. 


Rev.  Silvanus  Hay  ward  was  born  in  Gilsum,  N.  H.,  Dec.  3,  1828.  His  mother  wag  first 
cousin  to  the  late  William  Cullen  Bryant.  He  fitted  for  college  at  home  and  graduated 
at  Dartmouth  in  1853.  He  then  engaged  in  teaching,  and  was  preceptor  of  several  acad 
emies  in  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont.  Having  been  approbated  as  a  candidate  for  the 
ministry,  he  supplied  the  pulpit  of  the  Second  Church,  in  New  Ipswich,  N.  H..  nine 
months.  He  was  ordained  in  Dunbarton,  Oct.  9,  18G1,  and  preached  in  that  town  until 
May,  1, 1866,  at  which  time  he  was  dismissed,  and  May  11,  of  the  same  year,  was  installed 
at  South  Berwick,  this  State,  where  he  remained  seven  years,  with  great  acceptance. 
Since  then  he  has  been  Professor  of  Mathematics  in  Fiske  University,  at  Nashville, 
Tenn.,  where  he  remained  two  years.  From  1875  to  1880,  he  was  engaged  mostly  in  writ 
ing  the  History  of  Gilsum,  N.  H.,  which  was  published  in  1881.  He  is  now  the  Congre 
gational  pastor  at  Globe  Village,  Southbridge,  Mass.,  and  is  also  engaged  in  completing 
the  History  of  Rochester,  N.  H.,  the  originator  of  the  work  having  died.  In  -Inly,  1870, 
Mr.  Hayward  delivered  at  Dartmouth  College,  a  poem,  entitled,  "Brass  and  Brains." 


FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  AN  ALBUM. 

Ye  who  ope  this  book,  beware!  Freely  quaff  that  sparkling  flood; 

Let  indifference  never  dare  'T  is  the  heart's  most  precious  blood ; 

Stain  the  page  that  now  is  fair.          'T  is  the  only  earthly  good. 

This  is  Friendship's  holy  shrine,  May  you,  with  those  recorded  here, 

Here  Affection's  tendrils  twine,  Find  its  currents  bright  and  clear, 

And  from  clusters  of  her  vine  Unalloyed  with  bitter  tear, 
Love  shall  press  his  golden  wine. 

And  beyond  these  clouded  skies, 
When  the  eternal  morn  shall  rise, 
Drink  it  pure  in  Paradise. 


392  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THRENODY. 

0  blessed  Jesus !  how  my  heart  is  yearning 
To  clasp  the  darlings  thoii  hast  called  away ! 

With  quenchless  sorrow  all  my  soul  is  burning 

To  see,  embrace,  and  hear  them,  if  I  may. 
How  sweet  the  music  of  their  happy  voices ! 

How  dear  the  pattering  of  their  feet  at  play! 
With  ceaseless  billows  all  my  bosom  tosses, 
Lorn  of  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 

1  know  that  from  all  earthly  storms  defended 
Like  tender  lambs  they  lie  upon  thy  breast; 

No  more  they  weep;  all  childish  griefs  are  ended; 

Safe  folded  in  thy  loving  arms  they  rest. 
But,  Lord,  my  eyes  are  dim  with  mists  of  sadness; 

My  faith  is  weak,  and  darkness  blots  the  day; 
I  cannot  see  the  beauty  and  the  gladness 

That  crown  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 

Lord,  touch  my  sightless  eyes  that  upward  turning 

Still  fail  with  longing  their  delights  to  see, 
That  healed  and  cleansed  they  may,  with  faith's  discerning, 

Look  on  the  mansions  where  they  rest  with  thee. 
Let  the  dark  pinions  of  this  sorrow  nearer 

Bring  thee,  O  Saviour!  to  my  soul,  I  pray; 
Sweeter  the  richness  of  thy  love  and  dearer 

Because  my  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 

Shrouded  in  darkness,  drinking  down  the  bitter, 

Thy  love  can  sweeten  every  scalding  drop ; 
Thy  smile  can  make  the  murky  midnight  glitter 

With  the  bright  dawning  of  eternal  hope. 
Through  life's  slow  cadence  never  more  forsaken, 

O  lead  me  in  thy  loving  steps  each  day, 
Till  with  thy  likeness  satisfied  I  waken, 

And  find  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 


This  lady,  daughter  of  the  late  Leonard  and  Lucy  C.  Hathaway,  was  born  in  Paris, 
Jan.  G,  1829.  She  taught  school  bafore  her  nvirriage,  ami  has  written  interesting  articles 
for  reunions,  family  gatherings  and  other  special  occasions  She  married  Kllery  W. 
Rove,  of  Woo  Istock,  and  lins  resided  nviny  years  in  Portland.  Her  life  has  been  sad 
dened  by  the  loss  of  several  children,  one  of  whom,  Carrie  INT.  Rowe,  was  a  graduate  of 
the  Portland  High  School,  "a  young  lady."  says  the  Historian  of  Paris,  "distinguished 
for  her  amiability  of  character,  and  her  scholarly  attainments,  and  who  was  held  in  the 
highest  esteem  by  a  wide  circle  of  friends."  Mrs.  Rowe  composed  the  following  lines  on 
the  occasion  of  revisiting  the  old  homestead  in  Paris,  which  has  passed  from  the  family 
into  the  hands  of  strangers. 


M A E Y  HA THA  WA  Y  EOWE. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 
Home  of  my  childhood,  the  last  link  is  severed 

That  bound  me  to  that  spot  I  loved  so  well; 
No  more  shall  voice  of  kindred  there  recall  me, 

No  more  entice  by  friendship's  magic  spell. 

The  voice  that  soothed  the  early  griefs  of  childhood, 
The  willing  hands  that  toil  for  me  no  more, 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  kindly  greetings; 
All,  all  have  crossed  to  yonder  happy  shore. 

The  weight  of  years  is  stamped  upon  my  forehead, 
The  weight  of  grief  sometimes  too  heavy  seems; 

But  in  my  heart  the  home  and  joys  of  childhood 
Are  oft  recalled  by  sweet  and  happy  dreams. 

The  rock  that  stood  beneath  the  apple  blossoms, 
The  brook  that  murmurs  'neath  its  shadows  yet, 

The  tree  our  brother  planted  by  the  roses, 
Are  memories  dear  that  I  would  ne'er  forget. 

The  dear  old  woods  that  crowned  the  western  hillsider 
Whose  sunset  shadows  waved  around  our  home; 

In  school-days,  warm  and  tired,  oft  have  I  rested 
Beneath  the  spread  of  nature's  emerald  dome. 

The  woods  are  gone;  a  stranger's  hand  hath  laid  them; 

We  rest  no  more  beneath  their  grateful  shade, 
But  all  the  hills  are  there,  as  in  our  childhood, 

On  one  more  dear,  a  sister's  grave  was  made. 

As  in  a  dream  I  hear  the  distant  church  bells, 
Resounding  where  my  youthful  feet  have  trod ; 

In  all  besides,  a  sacred  stillness  reigneth ; 
Those  Sabbath  days  so  dear,  so  near  to  God ! 

I  see  the  brook  and  hear  the  river's  murmur, 
Mingling  with  songs  of  birds  and  matin  chimes; 

But  list  in  vain  for  loved  and  kindred  voices, 
For  they  who  walked  with  me  now  live  in  brighter  climes. 

Beyond  the  hills  and  woods,  beyond  their  shadows, 

Beyond  the  clouds,  tinted  by  sunset  skies, 
We  there  shall  see  our  loved  ones  and  be  with  them, 

In  brighter  homes  unseen  by  mortal  eyes. 

27 


394  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


ionhn 


Mr.  Leavitt  was  born  in  Naples,  then  a  part  of  Baldwin,  March  10,  1829.  His  father 
was  one  of  the  first  settlers  of  that  region.  Being  the  youngest  in  a  pretty  large  family, 
Mr.  Leavitt  received  that  "  liberal  education  in  chores,"  which  Mr.  Warner  thinks  indis 
pensable  to  subsequent  usefulness;  but  his  other  educational  advantages  were  quite  lim 
ited.  He  learned  something  in  the  common  schools,  but  more  by  himself,  and  without 
a  teacher.  With  few  companions  of  his  own  age,  and  fewer  of  like  tastes,  he  early  formed 
an  ardent  attachment  to  natural  objects,  both  animate  and  inanimate,  and  never  lacked 
good  company  with  the  fields  and  woods  about  him.  Without  envying  the  glittering 
prizes  won  by  others,  he  has  felt  it  a  kind  lot  that  has  given  him  his  "  little  farm,"  and 
some  modest  inspiration  of  the  Grecian  muse.  His  ambition  in  life,  as  expressed  by  him 
self  has  been  "  that  in  som^  way,  an  1  in  some  small  degree,  the  world  may  be  the  better 
and' the  happier  for  my  having  lived  in  it."  He  married  Miss  Mary  Barker  Russell,  of 
Newry  Me  May  16,  1850.  His  home  in  Naples,  Me.,  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Long 
Lake,  with  'its  bright  and  far-spread  waters,  its  gracefully  indented  shores,  and  its  pic 
turesque  hills  clustering  thickly  about  it. 


LOXG  AGO. 

Ye  rolling  years  that  evermore 

Are  speeding  silently! 
With  rapid  pace  ye  mark  the  space 

Betwixt  my  youth  and  me ! 
But  oft,  with  memory  hand  in  hand, 

Whilst  wandering  to  and  fro, 
I  journey  to  the  happy  land 

In] the  realm  of  Long  Ago. 

O  who  shall  sing  the  matchless  songs 

Of  the  joyous  Long  Ago  ? 
And  who  shall  tell  the  loves  that  dwell 

In  the  blessed  Long  Ago  ? 
The  loves  that  ne'er  had  doubt  or  fear 

When  hearts  no  shadows  knew, 
And  hope's  gay  voice  sang  sweet  and  clear 

In  the  bowers  of  Long  Ago ! 

Bright  days  of  blissful  ignorance, 

When  all  was  fair  and  true; 
When  life  paused  not  to  question  aught, 

But  trustful  reveled  through 
The  golden  day  in  dreamy  play, 

While  Time's  deceitful  flow 
Outbore  us  from  the  enchanted  isles 

Of  the  glorious  Long  Ago ! 

O  never  smiles  can  be  so  bright 

As  the  smiles  of  Long  Ago; 
And  never  friends  so  staunch  and  true 

As  the  friends  of  Long  Ago ! 


HEZEKIAH  JORDAN  LEAVITT. 


Here'  s  a  mournful  sigh  for  the  joys  that  lie 

In  the  far-off  Long  Ago ! 
Here 's  a  song  and  a  tear  for  the  loved  and  dear 

Of  the  blessed  Long  Ago ! 


CHAKITY. 

The  oak  that  grows  on  the  mountain 

Has  many  a  twist  and  crook,— 
Stunted,  and  gnarled,  and  knotty, 

With  never  a  pleasant  look; 
For  by  every  storm  it  is  beaten, 

And  beset  by  every  blast; 
And  the  soil  is  cold  and  sterile 

Wherein  its  roots  are  cast. 

•But  the  oak  that  grows  in  the  valley 

Is  a  fair  and  shapely  tree; 
Straight,  and  tall,  and  majestic 

As  ever  an  oak  should  be! 
For  'tis  fed  by  the  land's  best  fatness 

And  sheltered  from  every  storm, 
With  never  a  blast  of  the  mountain  wind 

To  mar  its  graceful  form. 

Yet  the  stunted  oak  of  the  mountain 

With  as  fair  a  form  was  blest, 
When,  a  young  and  tender  sapling, 

It  clung  to  its  mother's  breast; 
And  had  it  grown  in  the  valley, 

And  been  fanned  by  the  tempered  breeze, 
High  and  wide  it  had  towered  in  pride, 

A  giant  among  the  trees ! 


A  THOUGHT. 

O  what  is  life,  that  we  should  be 

So  wedded  to  a  few  brief  years  ? 
And  what  is  death— the  master-key 

That  opes  the  grandest  mystery,— 
That  we  should  view  with  dread  and  tears  ? 

'Tis  but  to  drop  a  weary  quest, 
To  lay  our  useless  garments  by, 

And  fold  the  hands  across  the  breast, 
And  close  the  eyes  in  peaceful  rest, 

And  wake  to  immortality ! 


396  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

SONG  OF  YOUTH. 

O  youthful  hours, — delightsome  hours ! 
No  clouds  should  change  your  light  to  gloom, 

No  time  so  fit  to  gather  flowers 
As  when  they  are  in  bloom ! 

The  sorrows  that  beset  our  life- 
Full  soon  their  burden  we  must  bear, 

If  while  the  roses  blossom  rife 
We  hide  away  from  care. 

And  doth  not  every  preacher  say 
That  life  is  but  a  narrow  span, 

And  youth,  at  best,  a  summer's  clay  ? 
Let  us  be  happy  when  we  can! 

Old  Age  is  stealing  on  apace, 

Old  Age,  so  sad— Old  Age,  so  grim, 
With  wrinkles  on  his  care-worn  face, 

And  eyes  so  dull  and  dim ! 
The  oaken  staff  he  leans  upon 

Can  scarce  support  his  tottering  frame, 
And  from  his  heart  the  fire  is  gone 

That  lit  life's  glorious  flame. 
Then  ere  his  presence  chills  our  powers, 

And  drives  the  sunshine  from  the  day, 
We'll  make  the  most  of  youth's  bright  hours — 

Let  us  be  happy  while  we  may ! 


SONG  OF  AGE. 

Ah,  hoary  hairs !  triumphal  crown ! 

The  last,  the  dearest  gift  of  time, 
We  would  not  cast  your  glory  down 

For  all  the  joys  of  youthful  prime. 
Could  we,  by  wish,  displace  the  years 

Through  which  we've  trod  our  pilgrimage, 
And  face  again  the  hopes  and  fears 

That  meet  us  on  life's  opening  stage,  — 
We'd  scorn  the  wish,  nor  lift  the  veil 

That  dims  the  memories  of  the  past; 
Enough  that  we  have  trod  the  vale 

And  gained  the  heights  at  last. 

Think  not  we  view  with  envious  glance 

The  fickle  phantoms  of  delight 
That  for  a  little  moment  dance 


HARRIET  SELDEN  BAKER.  397 


In  youth'  s  bright  path,  then  flee  from  sight; 
Too  well  we  know  their  emptiness — 

Too  well  we've  proved  their  feeble  power 
To  make  life's  weary  burdens  less, 

Or  brighten  the  declining  hour. 
But  we  can  sing  of  labors  done, 

Of  life's  great  mysteries  overcome, 
The  long,  long  battle  fought  and  won, 

And — we  are  almost  home ! 


<sp 

Miss  Harriet  S.  Baker  was  born  in  Norridgewock,  Sept.  11,  1829,  and  has  always  lived 
in  her  native  town.  She  has  been  much  of  an  invalid  for  many  years,  but  possesses  a 
cheerful  temperament,  is  very  fond  of  good  literature,  and  many  of  her  pieces,  contrib 
uted  to  leading  religious  publications  and  family  journals,  are  regarded  as  specimens  of 
real  merit.  Miss  Baker  has,  also,  for  some  time,  written  successfully  in  prose. 


THE   EMPTY  "TRUNDLE-BED." 

"Mother,  don't  you  think  it  best, 

To  sell  our  trundle-bed  ? 
A  neighbor  just  across  the  way 

Would  like  to  buy,  he  said. 

"  Our  children  all  are  grown,  and  now 

For  years  have  been  away 
From  the  old  home,  as  man  and  maids, 

While  this  seems  in  the  way!" 

The  husband's  voice,  though  never  harsh, 
Smote  through  the  "gude  wife's"  heart 

Like  as  a  sword — and  with  her  tears 
She  whispered,  "  Do  not  part, 

"Dear  William,  with  this  relic  old, 

Of  our  bright  youthful  days ; 
When  little  children  filled  the  house 

With  all  their  childish  ways. 

"  You  can't  forget  when  we  at  night 

Had  each  our  pet  lamb  fed, 
We'd  gently  lay  them  down  to  sleep 

On  this  same  little  bed. 

"And  ne'er  so  happy  were  we  then 

As  when  we  went  to  rest, 
We'd  look  down  on  the  darling  face 

That  sleeping  looked  so  blest ! 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"True,  they  have  left  us— all— and  now 

In  other  lands  yet  roam ; 
But  often,  midst  my  household  cares, 

I  fancy  them  at  home. 

"  How  plainly  I  can  see  our  twins 

Sleeping  here  side  by  side; 
They  seem  yet  still  my  'little  girls,' 

Though  one  is  now  a  bride. 

"I  see  our  light-haired  Carl,  and  Em — 
The  little  dark-brown  heads 

Of  rougish  Lou  and  '  little  Dot' 
In  turn. upon  this  bed! 

"And  O  such  memories  fill  the  heart — 

And  young  I  seem  to  grow, 
Forgetful  that  my  auburn  locks 

Are  now  as  white  as  snow! 

"  We  cannot  let  it  go.     I  'm  sure 

You  do  not  think  it  best!" 
"No,  mother,  no !    I  will  deny 

Our  neighbor  Hans'  request. 

"And  strange  it  seems  that  I  could  part 
With  what  brings  now  such  joy; 

This  tender  link  that  binds  us  to 
Our  girls  and  darling  boy ! 

"Their  little  hands  have  one  by  one 

Lain  on  this  little  bed; 
Keep  it  ?  O  yes,  in  memory  of 

The  living  and  the  dead." 

LIFE'S  KNITTING-WORK. 


My  knitting-work  I  laid  aside 
When  the  week  was  done; 

But  I  took  it  up  again 

With  Monday's  rising  sun. 

Stitch  by  stitch,  hour  by  hour, 
Through  the  live-long  day, 

Do  I  go  the  many  rounds 
Of  life's  busy  way. 

But  I  find  that  I  oft  drop 
Stitches,  here  and  there, 

From  my  tired  hands  that  are 
Burdened  so  with  care. 


But  each  stitch  I  patiently 
Through  the  meshes  draw: 

Till  my  work  is  once  again 
Whole,  without  a  flaw ! 

O  that  when  my  life  shall  close, 
And  all  its  acts  laid  bare, 

It  might  all  be  found  complete — 
Perfect  everywhere, — 

A  well-rounded  life  that  should 
Receive  our  Lord's  bequest: 

"Well  done,  Faithful,  enter  in 
To  my  promised  rest!" 


MAEGAEET  JANE  MUSSEY  SWEAT. 


DARKENED  PARLORS. 


Open  wide  the  lattice, 
Raise  the  windows  high; 

Grasp  the  summer  breezes 
As  they  're  flitting  by. 

Dark  and  cold  these  parlors,— 
Bring  in  birds  and  flowers  ; 

Let  there  not  be  autumn 
In  these  summer  hours  ! 

Loop  these  dainty  curtains 

To  the  very  top  ; 
Of  this  golden  sunshine 

Do  not  lose  a  drop. 

Ah  !  see  how  it  dances 
Through  the  emerald  trees, 

As  it  plays  at  "hide-and-seek" 
With  the  summer  breeze. 


See  how  quick  it  kisseth 

This  cold  marble  floor; 
Giving  it  a  warmth  and  glow 

It  never  knew  before. 

It  rests  on  those  rare  pictures 

Hanging  on  the  wall, 
So  that  we  can  almost  hear 

The  murmuring  waterfall  ! 

Strike  the  chords  of  music,  — 

Like  a  chime  of  bells, 
They  now  float  around  these  walls,- 

O  who  can  ever  tell 

What  a  change  the  sunshine 
Hath  wrought  within  this  room; 

Warm,  and  sweet,  and  golden, 
Robbed  of  all  its  gloom. 


Mrs.  Sweat  (Margaret  Jane  Mussey,)  daughter  of  Hon.  John  Mussey  of  Portland,  was 
born  in  that  city  and  has  always  made  it  her  home.  Married  Hon  L.  D.  M.  Sweat,  Octo 
ber,  1849.  Visited  Europe  in  1855,  and  wrote  letters  thence  to  The  Christian  Jief/ister, 
then  a  prominent  Unitarian  paper  in  Boston.  Her  first  book,  "Ethel's  Love-Life:  a 
Romance,"  was  published  by  Kudd  &  Carleton,  New  York,  in  January,  1859,  followed  in 
October  of  same  year  by  "  Highways  of  Travel,  or  a  Summer  in  Europe,"  published  by 
Walker  &  Wise,  Boston.  Traveled  extensively  in  Europe  in  1873^1,  and  again  in  1887. 
Her  writings  include  poems,  essays,  criticisms,  arid  sketches  of  travel  in  Egypt,  Europe, 
and  different  parts  of  our  own  country.  Has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  The  North 
American  Review,  The  Galaxy,  Neiv  Orleans  Picayune,  New  York  Saturday  Press, 
Boston  Courier,  Portland  Transcript  and  other  periodicals.  Mrs.  Sweat  has  passed 
many  winters  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  still  spends  the  cold  season  there. 


Written  for  the  Sanitary  Commission  Fair,  held  in  Philadelphia,  during  the  Civil  War. 
OUR  COUNTRY'S  CAUSE. 

War's  cruel  ploughshare  cleaves  the  land 

With  furrows  wide  and  deep;— 
Each  furrow  is  a  hallowed  grave 

Where  our  loved  heroes  sleep. 
But  costly  seed  we're  planting  now 

In  weariness  and  pain, 
Shall,  at  the  harvest-time,  bring  forth 

Fair  fields  of  priceless  grain. 

Our  hearts  are  saddened  by  the  sight 

Of  sick  and  wounded  men: — 
It  seems  as  if  God's  summer  air 

Could  ne'er  be  pure  again. 


400  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


But  side  by  side  with  War's  dark  sins 

Man's  noblest  virtues  shine, 
And  woman's  sweet  compassion  beams 

With  lustre  half  divine. 

Sweet  Mother  Earth  with  tender  care 

Covers  her  wounds  with  flowers  — 
And  we  would  learn  her  loving  art 

For  these  deep  wounds  of  ours. 
For,  though  our  tears  fall  sadly  now 

They,  like  the  summer  rain, 
May  bring  rich  blessings  for  the  time 

When  sunshine  comes  again. 

Only  for  thee,  dear  native  Land, 

Could  we  thus  bear  our  woe: 
Only  for  thee  see  day  by  day 

Our  brave  men  thus  laid  low. 
But  though  our  griefs  must  inly  bleed 

Through  many  a  coming  year, 
Each  sorrow  mikes  our  Country's  Cause 

To  patriot  hearts  more  dear. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  PLAINT. 

As  if  across  Sahara's  sands, 
Dear  Love,  to  thee  I  stretch  my  hands— 
Between  our  hearts  the  desert  lies 
Barren  beneath  the  burning  skies. 

Each  morn  to  cross  the  arid  waste 
I  start  and  strive  with  eager  haste  :— 
Each  night  I  see  at  set  of  sun 
My  journey  is  but  just  begun. 

Sometimes  beneath  the  noontide  glare 
The  mirage  gleams  before  me  fair — 
Only  to  lure  my  weary  feet 
Still  farther  with  its  fond  deceit. 

Long  trains  of  travelers  pass  me  by, 
Careless  of  all  the  crowd  am  I  : 
Uncharmed  by  all  that  most  they  prize, 
Untrammeled  by  their  fondest  ties. 

But  as  alone  I  wander  on 
Seeking ,the  way  thou  mayst  have  gone, 
Methinks  the  desert  sweet  might  be 
Had  I  but  kept  clasped  hands  with  thee. 


M A  EGA  RET  JA  NE  M  USSE  Y  S  WE  A  T.  401 


Could  I  now  lift  mine  eyes  to  thine 
Light  heart  and  lighter  step  were  mine- 
Apart  from  thee  the  lengthening  way 
G-rows  darker,  drearier,  day  by  day. 

Dear  Love,  come  forth  and  set  me  free, 
Draw  all  my  being  up  to  thee — 
Bid  dreams  of  desert  sands  depart, 
And  take  me  to  my  home — thy  heart! 


MY  FRIEND— MY  FRIEND. 

A  thousand  thoughts  unwritten  and  unspoken 
Fly  from  my  heart  to  find  their  home  with  thee; 

And  not  one  link  of  pleasantness  is  broken 
Which  bound  thee  in  the  dear  old  time  to  me. 

N  o  day  goes  by  with  heavy  step  or  fleeting, 
But  bears  its  weight  of  loving  hope  or  fear, 

With  which,  for  thy  dear  sake,  my  heart  is  beating, 
As  quick  and  fond  as  if  thou  still  wert  near. 

No  morning  hour  shines,  or  evening  darkens 
Without  some  question  from  my  soul  to  thine, 

And  as  for  thy  reply  my  spirit Jiearkens, 
The  winds  bring  answer  that  thou  art  all  mine. 

I  know  that  through  this  dark  and  hopeless  sorrow 
We  shall  love  on  as  we  have  loved  so  long — 

And  though  no  ray  of  promise  gild  the  morrow. 

Each  day  will  prove  our  trust  more  true  and  strong. 

What  matters  then  for  us  this  earthly  parting  ? 

What  though  the  daily  life  be  sad  and  lone  ? 
Ah  me!  such  tears  as  these  should  ne'er  be  starting 

To  eyes  that  once  have  looked  into  thine  own. 

No  thought  save  one  of  deep  and  earnest  gladness 

Should  fill  the  heart  which  thou  hast  stooped  to  win, — 

Thou  art  so  strong,  that  when  I  yield  to  sadness, 
Against  the  greatness  of  thy  love,  I  sin. 

My  Friend!  my  Friend!  forgive  my  weak  complaining, 
I  shrink  at  thought  of  all  these  passing  years ! 

So  few  are  gone — so  many  yet  remaining — 

How  can  I  choose  but  count  them  through  my  tears  ? 

But  do  not  fear  that  though  I  now  am  weeping, 
No  glorious  lesson  by  thy  strength  is  taught: 

Not  all  in  vain  these  vigils  am  I  keeping — 
Not  all  unworthy  is  the  work  I've  wrought! 


402  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


LET  NOT  HIM  THAT  GIRDETH  ON  HIS  HARNESS  BOAST  HIM 
SELF  AS  HE  THAT  PUTTETH  IT  OFF." 

O  tliou  who  standest  in  the  morning  dawn, 
Whose  pulses  quicken  and  whose'  heart  beats  high, 
Longing  to  gird  the  untried  harness  on, 
Flushing  with  ardor— sure  of  victory  ;— 
Thou  little  know'st  how  long  the  day  may  be— 
Nor  how  its  heat  and  toil  may  waste  thy  strength,— 
Youth's  buoyant  confidence  can  only  see 
The  conflict's  opening— not  its  weary  length. 

The  blood  and  dust  may  stain  thy  snowy  plume, 
The  tired  hand  may  fail  to  strike  the  blow; 
The  morn  that  smiled  may  prove  a  day  of  gloom, 
And  hopes  that  rose  in  joy  may  set  in  woe. 
Traitors  within  and  foes  without  may  wound — 
Friends  that  are  dear  fall  prostrate  by  thy  side ; 
Through  the  long  day  upon  the  battle-ground 
Thou  must  remain  till  the  full  even-tide. 

Then  hush  the  boastings  of  a  thoughtless  pride, 
Put  on  thine  armor — draw  thy  flashing  blade, 
God  for  thy  strength  and  Jesus  for  thy  guide, 
In  nought  exulting — yet  in  nought  dismayed; 
Fight  bravely  for  the  cause  of  Truth  and  Right 
Through  the  long  day— and,  when  the  setting  sun 
Shall  bid  thee  hail  the  welcome  shades  of  night, 
All  heaven  and  earth  shall  own  thy  victory  won ! 


NOW  AND  THEN. 

When  you  and  I  were  true  Each  look  of  yours  beguiled ; 

How  fast  the  moments  flew,  I  worshiped  when  you  smiled ; 

Days  were  but  hours;  Thrilled  when  you  sighed.— 

We  were  a  loving  pair—  And  if  by  chance  a  frown 

We  had  no  thought  of  care  Brought  your  fine  eyebrows  down, 

Whose  bliss  like  ours  ?  I  almost  died  ! 

I  find  you  charming  still,  And  you — were  not  you  then 

Of  course;  and  you,  too,  will  Blind  to  all  other  men- 
Still  call  me  clever;  Deaf  to  their  praise  ? 

But  that's  another  thing,  Was  not  your  heart  all  mine  ? 

A  different  song  to  sing—  Was  not  I  quite  divine 
I  'm  not  your  lover!  In  those  fair  days  ? 


MARGARET  JANE  MURREY  8WEAT.  403 

No  farewells  have  been  spoken;  Alack!    Alack!    Alas! 

No  tender  hearts  been  broken;  How  human  passions  pass, 

And  yet  we '  ve  parted !  Floating  away ! 

'Tis  well  to  love  awhile,  Where  once  we  whispered  vows, 

But  better  still  to  smile  We  now  give  smiles  and  bows — 
When  love 's  departed !  Alack-a-day ! 

WATCHING. 

Far  out  into  the  twilight 

I  gaze  with  throbbing  heart ; 
At  every  sound  I  tremble, 

At  every  footstep  start. 

Faster  the  darkness  deepens, 
Faster  the  night  comes  on, 
And  through  the  long,  long  hours, 
¥  I  sit  and  weep  alone. 

The  neighbors'  lamps  are  lighted, 

And  from  each  window  shine 
Bright  beams  of  friendly  welcome — 

There  is  no  light  in  mine ! 

.    Their  households  are  assembled, 

Their  homes  are  full  of  glee, 
•Their  shadows  flitting  swiftly 
Across  the  light  I  see. 

And  there  is  one  whose  coming 

Would  make  my  home  more  light 
Than  those  which  glow  the  brightest 

This  dark  and  dreary  night. 

And  though  my  heart  grows  heavy, 

I  still  must  watch  and  wait — 
For  surely  he  will  enter 

Some  night  within  my  gate. 


THE  INVALID. 

In  the  hushed  stillness  of  a  darkened  room 

Through  the  long  days  I  lie ; 
Buried  and  hidden  in  a  living  tomb, 

Shut  out  from  earth  and  sky. 

Lonely  and  sorrowful  and  weak  and  faint, 
Stretched  on  my  couch  of  pain, 

The  oft-repeated  utterance  of  complaint 
Comes  sadly  forth  again. 


404  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  in  the  depths  of  this  poor  aching  breast 

Such  utter  darkness  lies, 
That  I  cease  not  to  inly  ask  for  rest, 

My  only  language—  sighs ! 

Thus  the  sad  hours  have  slowly  passed  away 

Through  all  these  weary  years ; — 
These  silent  walls  have  witnessed  day  by  day 

My  anguish  and  my  tears. 

0  Heavenly  Father !  unto  Thee  I  turn 
And,  with  humility, 

Strive  evermore  the  lesson  sweet  to  learn 
Of  perfect  trust  in  Thee. 

1  know  that  through  this  weight  of  pain  and  woe, 
Thou,  in  thine  own  good  time, 

Wilt  raise  my  spirit,  now  so  crushed  and  low, 
Up  to  that  height  sublime, 

Where,  in  Thy  presence — 'neath  the  glorious  light 
That  streams  from  Thy  "white  throne"  — 

My  earthly  faith  changed  into  heavenly  sight— 
I  shall  feel  peace  alone. 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR. 

If  time  is  measured  by  sensations, 

And  passions  make  us  centuries  old; 
If  sympathy  begets  relations 

To  which  the  ties  of  blood  are  cold;  — 
Then  them  and  I,  though  lately  meeting, 

Have  made  the  moments  fly  so  fast 
That  our  two  hearts,  together  beating, 

Through  years  of  love  and  life  have  passed. 

Then  do  not  wonder  that  I  woo  thee 

With  strangely  rapid  words  and  ways— 
But  let  me,  as  a  lover,  sue  thee 

To  count  as  years  these  fair,  sweet  days ; 
Each  hour  has  proved  a  month  of  pleasure, 

So  dearest,  I  have  loved  thee  long — 
Cease  then  by  minutes  life  to  measure — 

Love's  Calendar  will  prove  thee  wrong! 


NATHAN  F.  CARTER.-W.  K.   WE  A  RE.  405 


atlwn  JfranhJin  (j/arter. 


Rev.  Nathan  F.  Carter  was  born  in  Henniker,  N.  H.,  Jan.  6,  1830.  He  graduated  at 
Dartmouth  College  in  1853,  and  was  principal  of  the  High  School  in  Exeter,  N.  H.,  dur 
ing  nine  years,  ending  in  1864.  In  1865  he  graduated  at  the  Theological  Seminary  in  Ban- 
gor,  this  State,  and  was  ordained  as  a  Congregationalist  minister,  in  North  Yarmouth, 
Me.'  where  he  remained  till  1869,  when  he  became  pastor  of  a  church  in  Orford,  N.  H., 
and  continued  there  till  1874.  He  then  went  to  Bellows  Falls,  Vt.,  and  in  1879  to  Que- 
chee,  Vt.,  where  he  now  labors.  Mr.  Carter  is  engaged  on  a  large  biographical  work  of 
the  ministers  of  New  England,  and  writes  many  articles,  poems  and  sketches,  for  maga 
zines  and  newspapers.  He  was,  for  several  years,  one  of  tlie  editors  of  the  N.  H.  Jour 
nal  of  Education. 

IN  THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 
In  the  battle  of  life  do  the  best  that  is  in  thee, 

Climb  up  with  a  will  and  an  eye  on  the  stars, 
The  noblest  of  names  aspiring  to  win  thee, 

At  the  price,  if  need  be,  of  perils  and  scars ! 
There  is  room  in  the  radiant  spaces  above  thee; 

On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  are  conquerors'  palms. 
Live  grandly  for  God. — make  the  great  world  love  thee, 

For  the  sowing  of  sunshine  and  giving  of  alms ! 

Grow  virtues  and  graces  to  ripen  for  glory; 

Seek  riches  and  honors  that  pass  not  away ; 
With  manifold  blessings  make  golden  life's  story; 

For  the  good  of  humanity  labor  and  pray ! 
Be  a  peer  and  a  prince  in  the  grace  of  forgiving; 

Keep  ever  to  pathways  the  saintly  have  trod; 
In  love  with  the  good,  be  the  best  of  the  living; 

Do  the  best  for  the  world  by  the  favor  of  God ! 

With  a  bold,  brave  heart,  and  a  holy  endeavor, 

Girt  surely  and  well  with  an  armor  divine, 
Press  on  to  the  conflict,  surrendering  never 

To  the  foes  that  confront  thee  in  darkening  line ! 
What  is  servile  and  groveling,  heartily  scorning, 

With  an  eye  on  the  prize,  not  a  moment  delay, 
But  valiantly  press  to  the  Gates  of  the  Morning, 

And  live  in  its  fulness  of  glory  for  aye ! 


This  author,  born  in  one  of  the  coast  towns  of  Maine,  about  1830,  was  one  of  the 
"  '49ers"  to  California,  and,  later,  drifted  into  Virginia  City,  Nev.  He  was  for  several 
years  an  officer  in  the  California  State  Prison,  situated  at  Point  San  Quentin,  under  the 
shadow  of  Mount  Tamalpais,  the  Monarch  of  the  Coast  Range.  Mr.  Weare,  in  the  days 
of  the  Comstock's  glory,  was  the  boon  companion  of  such  men  as  Judge  Goodwin,  Mark 
Twain  and  Bret  Harte,  and  was  regarded  as  the  brightest  of  the  lot.  He  wrote  a  prize 
poem  for  which  he  received  ftlOO,  and  a  volume  of  his  poems,  entitled  "Songs  of  the 
Western  Shore,"  was  published  in  San  Francisco,  in  1879.  Mr.  Weare  died  in  Carson 
City,  Nov.,  in  1883.  We  are  indebted  to  the  Rev.  Josiah  McClain,  of  Ogden  City,  Utah, 
for  a  copy  of  Mr.  Weare's  poems,  from  which  we  make  the  following  selections. 


406  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

SONG  OF  THE  "BULLION." 
Where  the  snowy  crests  of  the  mountains  towered 

O'er  an  aspect  stern  and  wild, 
Where  no  harvests  gleamed  in  the  autumn  sun, 

Or  the  flowers  of  the  garden  smiled, 
For  ages  I  lay  in  my  gloomy  shroud, 

Unhlessed  by  the  Day-god's  beam, 
Ere  the  igneous  floods  of  the  earth  welled  forth 

In  the  lava's  fearful  stream. 

I  was  there  ere  the  Shepherd  Kings  of  old 

Worshiped  the  rainbow  fair, 
And  thought  that  it  rose  from  the  shades  of  death, 

And  was  born  from  the  breath  of  prayer; 
That  its  aureole  stripes,  with  their  golden  light, 

Reached  over  the  wide  earth's  rim, 
To  carry  the  prayers  of  the  culprits  up 

To  the  Throne  and  the  cherubim. 

I  was  there  ere  the  towers  of  the  Nile  were  seen, 

Or  a  pyramid  rais.ed  its  head, 
Or  Egyptian  graves  in  the  solid  rock 

Were  filled  with  the  mighty  dead; 
Ere  the  Orient  nations  waxed  and  waned 

In  the  ages  long  since  gone, 
Or  the  Eastern  World  bowed  down  before 

The  giants  of  Maceclon. 

1  was  here  in  the  wilds  of  our  wondrous  West 

Ere  its  empires  rose  and  fell ; 
But  none  invaded  my  lone  retreat, 

Or  dared  in  these  woods  to  dwell. 
Yes,  cycles  of  ages  before  the  time 

When  was  peopled  the  verdured  earth, 
And  the  age  when  its  burning  caldron  cooled, 

Was  the  date  of  my  fiery  birth.   • 

But  now!  I  am  lord  of  land  and  sea — 

All  bow  to  my  mighty  power, 
And  the  loftiest  head  bends  meekly  low 

For  a  tithe  of  my  princely  dower. 
I  bring  to  my  arms  from  distant  lands 

The  fruits  of  the  teeming  earth; 
From  my  path  in  despair  flies  the  vulture  Want, 

While  hope  in  the  heart  finds  birth. 


W.  If.    WEAEE.  407 


Do  you  ask  why  so  long  in  my  shroud  of  gloom 

I  lay  in  my  hidden  lair  ? 
Why  I  came  not  forth  to  the  glorious  light, 

A  boon  to  a  world  more  fair  ? 
G-o!  ask  of  the  Mighty  One  who  rules 

The  universe  supreme : 
I  abode  His  time  in  the  darksome  caves, 

Unblessed  by  the  Day-god's  beam- 
To  come  forth  at  the  time  when  tyrants  mocked, 

And  traitor  hands  were  raised, 
When  the  long-pent  fires  of  a  smouldering  hate 

O'er  the  walls  of  Sumpter  blazed. 
Then  I  came,  a  boon  to  the  gallant  ranks 

Of  the  millions  brave  and  true, 
Who  were  sworn  to  the  stars  of  the  grand  old  flag, 

Bequeathed  by  the  patriot  few.* 

Do  you  ask  who  am  I  who  in  haughty  pride 

Bend  the  earth  to  my  stubborn  will  ? 
At  whose  frown  the  fiery  passions  rise, 

At  whose  smile  the  fiends  are  still  ? 
Ye  have  known  my  name,  ye  have  owned  my  power! 

From  the  time  of  your  birth  'twas  told,— 
I  am  "Bullion,"  seen  in  the  silver's  sheen, 

And  the  gleam  of  the  radiant  gold. 


COLUMBIA,  MY  COUNTRY. 

Columbia,  my  Country !  the  last  born  of  nations, 

The  herald  of  freedom,  the  Star  of  the  West, 
The  brightest  of  stars  midst  the  earth's  constellations, 

Still  on  thy  broad  bosom  mankind  shall  be  blest. 
Long  dispersed  are  the  clouds  that  rebellion  once  gathered, 

And  to  dim  thy  resplendence  no  mists  intervene; 
Your  old  "Ship  of  State"  all  the  tempests  has  weathered, 

And  your  zenith  in  beauty  glows  calm  and  serene 
*  *  *  *  *  *  i 

Columbia,  my  Country!  I  love  your  cold  regions, 
The  home  of  my  childhood,  the  place  of  my  birth. 


*The  utilization  of  the  silver  from  the  Comstock  was  nearly  coeval  with  the  attack  on 
Sumpter,  and  from  that  time  a  continuous  stream  of  bullion  flowed  into  the  treasuries 
of  the  Sanitary  and  Christian  Commissions.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  discovery  of  gold 
and  the  millions  thrown  into  the  lap  of  the  nation,  it  is  doubtful  whether  our  credit 
would  have  carried  us  through  the  Avar.  And,  had  the  Western  Slope  been  in  sympathy 
with  the  South,  and  the  stream  of  bullion  gone  there,  the  result  would  have  been  entirely 
different.  The  Union  could  not  have  been  preserved. 


408  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


Temptations  are  powerless,  though  counted  by  legions, 
To  make  me  forget  that  one  spot  on  the  earth. 

But  I  love  your  calm  South,  with  her  sunny  savannas, 
I  love  your  stern  East,  near  Atlantic's  unrest, 

And  I  love — yes,  adore — with  its  sunshine  and  shadows, 
Your  beauteous,  resplendent,  and  wealth-giving  West ! 

Columbia,  my  Country!    No  myths  or  traditions 

Did  your  birth  and  your  infancy  ever  obscure; 
You  arose  on  the  ruins  of  old  superstitions 

At  the  dawn  of  an  era  whose  promise  is  sure. 
We  claim  not  the  fabled  "  St.  George  and  the  Dragon," 

St.  Michael  of  Russia,  St.  Dennis  of  France, 
Or  the  gods  of  the  pagans,  Astarte  or  Dagon— 

We  trust  the  Almighty  to  guide  our  advance. 

Columbia,  my  Country!     With  lustre  undying 

Your  banner  in  glory  and  honor  sustained — 
The  base  machinations  of  all  foes  defying, 

Your  eagle  high  soaring  in  might  unrestrained — 
Now  that  sweet  Peace  is  beaming  from  ocean  to  ocean, 

Again  highly  prospered,  by  Providence  blest— 
The  hearts  of  your  children  swell  high  with  devotion, 

And  proudly  exult  in  their  "  Star  of  the  West." 


NATURE'S  DOWER. 

TO  A  YOUNG  L.A.DY    WHO    ASKED    WHAT   WEEE  THE  WHITE  It' S  POSSESSIONS 
AND    PATRIMONY. 

Where,  do  you  ask,  are  my  acres  paternal  ? 

What  can  I  bring  to  your  hand  ? 
What  is  the  dowry  reserved  for  the  bridal  ? 

Where  are  the  realms  I  command  ? 
This  is  the  portion  bequeathed  by  my  father, 

All  my  domain,  where  I  stand. 

That  is  my  brook,  which  the  meadow  enlivens, 

Decked  with  its  margins  of  green; 
Hold.  I  my  castles  where  snow-crested  mountains, 

Stately,  high-towering  are  seen; 
There !  where  the  turrets,  to  heaven  up-reaching, 

Gleam  in  the  sun's  golden  sheen. 

These  are  my  gems,  ever  pure  and  resplendent, 

Strung  in  the  firmament's  dome; 
Brightly  they  glisten  with  lustre  unfading, 

Luring  my  spirit  to  home : 
Never  a  watchman  I  need  to  protect  them, 

Robbers  of  light  never  come. 


SALOME  R.   WARREN.  409 


See  ye  my  statues  ?     Antique  are  the  models, 

Known  to  the  ancients  of  yore. 
Groves  were  the  temples  where  man  first  did  worship, 

First  did  their  Maker  adore, 
When  o'er  the  aisles  of  the  forest  primeval 

Smoke  from  the  altar  did  soar. 

Where  are  the  minstrels  that  joy  to  delight  me, 

Breathing  their  souls  into  song  ? 
There !  where  the  brook  bubbles  forth  from  the  grotto, 

Sweetly  their  lays  they  prolong; 
Nature's  wild  warblers — the  lark  and  the  linnet — 

Far  from  the  world's  busy  throng. 

Where  are  the  paintings,  my  chambers  adorning, 

Breathing  of  beauty  divine  ? 
See  ye  the  flowers  that  hang  from  the  creepers  ? 

Art  can  but  copy  their  line ; 
Matchless  in  tint,  and  in  splendor  effulgent, 

They  all  the  graces  combine. 

See  ye  the  rainbow,  the  child  of  refraction, 

Born  from  the  affluence  of  light  ? 
See  ye  the  bright  burnished  clouds  of  the  sunset, 

Fairer  than  fancy's  proud  flight  ? 
Art's  highest  labors  appear  in  the  contrast 

Clothed  in  the  darkness  of  night. 

Bring  me  one -guerdon— 'tis  all  I  solicit; 

Help  all  these  gifts  to  employ; 
Wanting  that  help,  earth  a  wilderness  seemeth ; 

With  it,  bliss  hath  no  alloy. 
Then  shall  we  find  as  earth's  borders  .we  travel 

Ceaseless  the  sources  of  joy. 

Bring  me  the  charm  that,  in  sympathy  blending, 

Looks  to  the  regions  above ; 
Those  who  can  see  not  the  bounties  of  heaven 

Know  not  its  lessons  of  love. 
Then  will  my  heart  ope  its  portals  to  greet  you, 

And  the  Ark  will  make  welcome  the  Dove. 


\nlomt 


wnen. 


This  gifted  writer,  a  native  of  Pownal,  who  died  in  May,  1865,  wrote  many  fine  poems 
and  tales  for  various  publications,  and  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Claire  Or  of  ton  " 
soon  found  herself  a  favorite  among  thousands  of  readers.  The  Northern  Monthly 
Leslie's  Illustrated  News,  the  Transcript,  and  other  papers,  were  enriched  with  the  pro 
ducts  of  her  pen.  She  was  one  who  suffered  greatly  many  years,  and  yet  through  all  her 
trials  preserved. a  pure  and  gentle  spirit.  Had  health  and  strength  heen  given  her  she 


410  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE 


would  have  won  a  high  position  in  the  literary  world.  She  was  confined  mostly  to  her 
room  for  several  years,  by  a  paralysis,  which  admitted  of  her  writing  only  in  a  sitting 
posture  in  bed;  yet  such  was  her  strong  desire  to  give  utterance  to  her  thoughts  that  she 
could  not  resist  the  impulse.  To  the  faithful  and  untiring  watchfulness  at  the  sick  bed 
of  her  beloved  mother,  is  attributed  her  o\vn  premature  decline  and  early  death.  She 
was  a  lady  of  easy  manners,  quiet,  pleasant,  and  agreeably  communicative,  apparently 
laboring,  at  all  times,  to  be  submissive  to  the  Divine  will.  The  heart  must  be  insensate 
that  does  not  feel  the  magic  of  the  sentiment  and  the  truly  poetic  ring  of  'the  rhythm  or 
the  following  lines. 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

TO   A—. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  gloaming, 

And  the  firelight's  flickering  blaze, 
With  a  sudden  fitful  flashing, 

On  the  floor  and  ceiling  plays; 
Phantom-like  in  form  and  motion 

Dance  the  shadows  on  the  wall, 
And  a  weird  and  solemn  silence 

Broodeth  dimly  over  all. 

Through  the  open  casement  near  me 

Floats  a  sweet  and  rare  perfume,  — 
'Tis  the  scent  of  apple-blossoms 

Filling  all  my  quiet  room ; 
What  a  flood  of  mem'ries  surging 

Wave-like  through  my  troubled  brain ! 
Wakened  by  that  gush  of  fragrance, 

Bringing  back  the  past  again. 

Thou  rememberest,  O  my  sister. 

That  June  day  of  song  and  bloom, 
When  a  murmuring  group  were  gathered 

Sadly  in  a  darkened  room ; 
There  were  sobs  of  bitter  anguish, 

There  were  burning  tear-drops  shed, 
There  were  hearts  with  sorrow  laden, 

As  we  knelt  beside  our  dead. 

Could  it  be  our  mother  lying, — 

In  those  snowy  vestments  drest, — 
With  the  pale  hands  meekly  folded 

On  the  sleeper's  pulseless  breast  ? 
Such  a  still  and  saintly  beauty 

That  beloved  face  did  keep, 
As  though  angels'  wings  had  fanned  her 

Gently  to  that  dreamless  sleep. 


ANNIE  B.  C.  KEENE.  411 


And  a  peace  so  deep  and  holy 

Did  the  settled  features  wear, 
Speaking  of  a  rest  so  glorious 

Death  lost  half  its  terrors  there. 
O  the  thought  of  bliss  and  heaven 

Should  have  soothed  our  bitter  woe, 
But  our  eyes,  with  tear-drops  blinded. 

Could  not  see  the  promised  bow. 

Through  the  open  window  drifting, 

Past  the  curtain's  waves  of  gloom, 
Came  the  scent  of  apple-blossoms, 

Flooding  all  the  darkened  room. 
So  their  fragrance  ever  bringeth 

Memories  of  that  hour  of  pain, 
And  I  hear  the  bitter  weeping, — 

See  the  shrouded  form  again. 

O  my  sister,  if  our  footsteps 

Tread  the  pathway  she  hath  trod, 
It  will  surely  lead  us  upward 

To  our  mother  and  our  God ; 
We  shall  hear  her  voice  in  welcome 

When  we  reach  the  farther  shore, 
When  we  pass  the  heavenly  portals 

We  shall  see  her  face  once  more. 


Mrs.  Annie  B.  C.  Keene,  (whose  maiden  name  was  Chamberlain)  was  born  in  the  vicin 
ity  of  Bangor,  Me.,  in  which  city  she  lived  until  her  marriage  with  Rev.  Luther  Keene, 
whose  home  and  work  were  in  Massachusetts.  Since  his  death,  in  1874,  she  has  been 
engaged  in  writing  and  in  private  teaching  both  in  her  own  city  and  in  Massachusetts. 
Mrs.  Keene  is  at  present  residing  in  Windsor,  Conn. 


HIS  WILL. 

Of  earthly  goods  I  have  small  store ; 

Of  genius,  or  of  grace,  no  more. 

Once,  pondering  on  this  low  estate, 
I  found  a  wondrous  word, 
Which  all  my  being  stirred: 
"I  will,  that  they  be  where  I  am— 
Joint  heir  with  me,  their  Lord." 


412  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Trembling,  I  scanned  the  record  fair, — 

Would  my  poor  name  be  written  there  ? 

"Those,  Father,  whom  thou  gavestme." 
But  he  can  only  give 
The  hearts  he  doth  receive! 

And  mine — O  joy! — hath  long  been  his, — 
By  that  sweet  hope  doth  live! 

I  need  not  prove  this  will  Divine, 
Nor  ask  what  riches  may  be  mine; 
Since  perfect  love  hath  made  me  heir, 

Perfect  the  gift  must  be. 

With  him,  eternally, 
Whatever  here  my  soul  hath  missed 

Is  there  laid  up  for  me. 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS. 

"A  happy,  happy  New  Year,"  I  heard,— 
And  softly  glad  was  the  childish  voice, 
As  swift  to  the  mother's  breast  she  sped, 
To  lean  on  her  cheek  a  golden  head. 
Those  clasping  arms,  those  love-lit  eyes, 
Still  kisses  dropped  on  cheek  and  brow, 
Her  smile  at  morn,  her  songs  at  eve, 
Are  more  than  crown  and  kingdom  now. 
O  happy,  happy  year ! 

"A  happy,  happy  New  Year,  dear  heart!" 
The  wish  trembled  forth  from  gentlest  lips 
While  tender  eyes  sought  the  lover's  face 
To  see  in  its  light  this  vision  of  grace: 
A  realm  the  richest  earth  can  give, 
Where  Love  hath  key  to  every  door, 
And  Life  sings  low  its  hymns  of  peace, 
Herself  its  queen  f orevermore ! 
O  happy,  happy  year ! 

"A  happy,  happy  New  Year,  my  own!" 
And  worn  hands  linger  on  bowed  heads; 
A  pale  cheek  presses  the  pillow  of  snow; 
The  golden  hair  is  silvery  now. 
Her  day  of  life  ebbs  swift  away, 
But  heaven's  morrow  dawneth  clear; 
Its  songs  float  down  from  opening  gates; 
The  King  in  beauty  draweth  near! 
O  happy,  happy  year! 


ANNIE  B.  C.  KEENE.  413 

OUR  LEGACY. 

No  eye  hath  seen,  no  ear  hath  heard, 
Nor  hath  it  been  revealed  in  word, 
The  precious  things  He  left  behind, — 
The  precious  thing  we  go  to  find, — 

Through  pains  we  would  not  choose, 

From  joys  we  weep  to  lose. 

But  that  our  waiting  hearts  might  guess 
Some  secret  of  that  blessedness, 
The  Master,  e'er  his  work  was  done, 
Breathed  this  sweet  message  for  his  own, 

As  near  to  death  he  drew, — 

"My  peace  I  leave  with  you." 

"  My  peace" — but  not  the -loneliness; — 
Nor  friend,  nor  home,  nor  child  to  bless, — 
But  not  his  scorned  and  hated  name, 
Nor  yet  his  poverty  and  shame; 

These  bitter  things  he  knew, — 

But  left  his  peace  for  you. 

The  weight  of  woe  for  souls  of  men, 
To  win  them  to  their  God  again ; 
The  anguish  of  his  cruel  death, 
The  cry  upon  his  parting  breath, 

No  human  heart  e'er  knew; — 

His  peace  was  left  for  you. 

Beloved,  take  the  gift  anew ; 

It  passeth  knowledge — deep  and  true. 

Tender  as  is  the  brooding  dove, 

And  stronger  than  the  heart  of  love, — 

Its  home — the  Father's  breast — 

Was  left  to  bring  you  rest. 


OUR  QUEEN. 

The  falling  hair  upon  her  cheek 
Has  glint  of  gold  across  the  brown; 

And  soft  beneath  a  forehead  low 
Gray  eyes  in  tender  thought  droop  down,— 
Our  Queen  is  she — and  love  her  crown. 

Clear  is  her  voice  as  bubbling  spring; 
And  clean  her  heart  as  morning  rose ; 

Her  small  hands'  quick  and  gentle  touch — 
Soft  answers  dropped  where'er  she  goes — 
Are  all  the  law  her  kingdom  knows. 


414  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


So  rich  and  royal  is  her  state, 

No  price  is  set  on  service  done; 
Whoever  needs,— or  small,  or  great, 

Glad  feet  upon  their  errands  rim ; 

Her  heart  enfolds  them,  every  one. 

But  for  her  thousand  thoughts  of  love, 
And  thousand  ways,  so  good  and  wise, 

Should  one  say,  "Thank  you,  Sweet,  for  all," 

Lifting  her  face  in  swift  surprise, 
"Thank  you  for  thanking  me,"  she  cries. 

As  giving  is  but  gaining  more, — 
And  all  we  love  becomes  our  own, 

Each  day  her  kingdom  richer  seems ; 
New  subjects  bow  before  her  throne; 
Our  Queen  of  hearts  is  queenlier  grown. 


1wn\as  jjill  jjiich. 


Thomas  Hill  Rich  was  born  in  Bangor,  September,  1822,  son  of  Dr.  Rich,  a  respected 
physician.  After  graduating,  as  we  learn  from  the  "  History  of  Bowdoin,"  he  A^as  occu 
pied  for  some  time  by  attendance  on  invalid  friends,  but  at  length  entered  on  the  theo 
logical  course  in  the  seminary,  graduating  in  1852.  He  was  an  instructor  in  the  Eastern 
Maine  Conference  Seminary  at  Bucksport  three  years,  and  two  years  in  the  High  School, 
Portland.  He  was  for  six  years  assistant  instructor  in  Hebrew  in  Bangor  Seminary,  and 
since  1872  has  been  Professor  of  Hebrew  in  the  theological  department  of  Bates  College. 
In  1879  he  published  a  version  of  the  Hebrew  prophet  Nahum,  under  the  characteristi 
cally  modest  title  "  A  Study,  to  Indicate  Endeavor  and  its  Incomplete  Result."  From 
the  various  editorial  commendations  of  his  metrical  paraphrase  of  Nahum  Ave  select  a 
portion  of  that  of  I.  P.  Warren,  D.  D.,  Avhich  appeared  in  the  Christian  Mirror-  Dr. 
Warren  says:  "  His  purpose  has  been  well  accomplished.  The  paraphrase  is  in  iambic 
measure,  unrhymed,  but  easy  and  flOAving;  the  diction  pure,  and  the  effect  of  the  whole 
pleasing.  It  is  remarkable  IIOAV  much  of  grace  and  power  is  added  to  these  inspired  pro 
ductions  by  presenting  them  in  a  dress  AArorthy  of  their  originals."  Prof.  Rich  -is  a  mem 
ber  of  the  American  Oriental  Society.  His  wife,  a  gifted  writer,  is  elsewhere  represented 
in  this  volume. 

THE  BIBLE. 

See,  how  'gainst  yonder  rock 

The  billows  dash- 
But  move  it  not! 

So  stands  the  Bible  fast, 
Amid  the  roaring  sea 
Of  human  hate  and  obloquy. 


ODE. 

A   METRICAL   TRANSLATION   OF    THE    THIRD   CHAPTER   OF   HABAKKUK. 

Jehovah,  what  Thou  gavest  me  to  hear, 
My  ears  have  heard;  I  tremble  at  the  sound; 
Yet  long  to  see  Thy  judgments  in  the  earth, 
For  sake  of  righteousness. 


THOMAS  HILL  HIGH.  415 

0  Jehovah,  bring  Thy  work  to  life, 
Before  too  many  years  are  past ! 
Before  too  many  years  are  past, 
Be  it  with  power  declared! 

But  in  the  wrath  it  brings, 
Keep  mercy  still  in  mind ! 

Lo!  God  from  Teman  comes; 
Whose  name  alone  is  Holy  called, 
From  Paran's  mountain  hither  comes! 

His  splendor  overspreads  the  sky, 

His  glory  shines  through  all  the  earth ; 

A  brightness  rises  as  the  sun; 

On  either  hand  rays  stream  forth  from  Him — 

There  hides  His  might! 

Before  Him  goes  the  plague, 

And  pestilence  His  feet  attends. 

He  stays  His  course,  and  shakes  the 'earth; 

One  look  of  His  makes  nations  quake; 

And  everlasting  mountains  burst, 

And  crumble  into  dust; 

Olden  hills  sink  out  of  sight — 

His  olden  ways  again  He  takes. 

The  tents  of  Cushin  in  affliction  bowed, 

1  see;  and  Midian's  curtained  dwellings  shake. 
Is  it  at  rivers,  O  Jehovah, 

At  rivers  of  the  earth  thine  anger  burns  ? 

Or  is  it  on  the  sea  thy  wrath  is  poured  ? 

That  thou  dost  hither  with  Thy  horses  ride — 

Thy  chariots,  of  might  to  save ! 

Thy  bow  its  covering  forsakes — 

Its  chastisements  with  oath  foretold, 

Foretold  by  word  that  never  fails. 

Thine  arrows— they  are  smiting  earth, 

And  rivers  run  in  every  cleft; 

The  mountains  see  thee — lo !  they  writhe ; 

The  clouds  drop  floods  on  all  the  earth ; 

The  deep  lifts  up  its  mighty  voice — 

In  anguish  throws  its  hands  on  high. 

Sun,  moon  unto  their  tabernacle  haste, 

So  shine  Thine  arrows  as  they  speed ! 

So  bright  Thy  glittering  spear! 

In  indignation  Thou  art  marching  through  the  earth r 

In  anger  trampling  nations  down. 

To  save  Thy  people  Thou  art  come— 


416  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thine  armointed,  with  the  might  of  war  to  save 

From  house  of  wicked  prince, 

Its  head  thou  smitest  down, 

And  all  is  swept  away, 

Nor  needs  a  second  stroke. 

Their  weapons  turned  against  themselves, 

Thou  piercest  likewise  in  the  head 

His  followers  rude,  who  hither  storm, 

To  scatter  us  like  dust; 

Their  joy  like  theirs  who  lurk  to  slay  the  poor, 

And  all  he  has  possess. 

Thou  treadest  with  Thy  horses  through  the  sea; 
Through  foaming  waters  vast,  Thy  path  dost  take. 

The  judgments  that  shall  come,  I  heard, 

And  trembling  seized  my  inward  parts ; 

The  sound  to  quivering  set  my  lips; 

My  bones  all  firmness  lost; 

My  feet,  my  knees,  they  trembled,  too; 

For  I  in  quietness, 

Must  for  the  day  of  tribulation  wait— 

The  day  the  invader  shall  assault, 

And  Israel  distress. 

For  the  fig-tree  will  not  bloom, 

Nor  vines  give  their  increase, 

Fruits  of  olive  disappoint, 

And  fields  no  food  afford, 

In  the  fold  no  flock  be  found; 

And  no  ox  within  the  stall. 

Yet  I  in  Jehovah  will  exult, 
And  joy  in  God,  who  saveth  me. 
Jehovah— ruling  all— He  is  my  strength; 
Like  feet  of  hinds,  my  feet  He  makes, 
And  gives  me  heights  to  tread 
In  joy  and  liberty. 


Only  child  of  Dr.  Nicholas  Jumper,  was  born  in  Minot,  Me.,  April  17,  1824,  and  died  in 
Auburn,  Me.,  January,  1881.  When  five  years  old,  her  father  removed  to  Parkman,  Me., 
where  he  died  in  1834.  The  wife  and  daughter  soon  returned  to  Minot.  Anna  showed  a 
great  fondness  for  books,  and  not  finding  the  school  privileges  needed,  Rev.  Elijah  Jones 
—  a  rare  scholar  -  off ered  the  orphan  girl  the  privilege  of  studying  with  his  own  daugh 
ters,  whom  he  had  educated  chiefly  at  home.  Anna's  taste  for  poetry,  and  her  fondness 
for  writing  verses  of  rare  sweetness,  attracted  the  attention  of  her  friends.  She  wrote  a 
parody  on  Hood's  "  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  entitled  "  Song  of  the  Shoe,"  which  was  printed 


ANNIE  S.  BROWN.  .  417 


in  the  Maine  Farmer.  Sometimes  teaching,sometimes  working  in  other  Avays,  her  girlhood 
drifted— not  carelessly  -  onward  to  womanhood.  She  was  for  a  time  a  pupil  in  Lewiston 
Falls  Academy,  under  E.  P.  Weston,  and  it  was  during  her  school  days  there  that  she 
met  her  future  husband.  She  was  a  regular  correspondent  of  a  Boston  journal,  and 
contributed  poems  to  Arthur's  Magazine  and  other  periodicals,  sometimes  writing 
sketches  and  stories  as  Avell  as  verse.  '  She  was  married  to  Mr.  Oliver  H.  Brown,  of  Ray 
mond  Me  March,  1851.  From  this  time  Mr.  Brown  became  a  resident  of  Minot,  until 
1874  when  he  removed  to  Auburn,  Me.  Mrs.  Brown  possessed  a  symmetrical  Christian 
character.  She  read  human  nature  well,  and  rarely  bestowed  her  friendship  upon 
unworthy  persons.  Whom  she  trusted,  it  was  safe  for  others  to  trust.  Naturally 
reserved,  yet  possessing  a  quiet  dignity  that  won  the  love  and  respect  of  her  associates. 
An  ardent  lover  of  nature,  she  drew  inspiration  from  nature.  Her  most  intimate  friends 
were  scarcely  aware  of  herTgift  of  song— for  she  had  hidden  herself  behind  a  nom  de 
pZ-ume- and  When  detected,  would  assume  another.  From  a  large  collection  of  MSS. 
and  printed  verses,  the  following  may  convey  some  idea  of  her  gifts  as  a  poet. 


THE  CHOICEST  TREASURE. 

There  are  gems  in  ocean  cave, 

White  pearls  in  the  blue-girt  deep, 
And  far  'neath  the  shadowy  wave. 

Where  the  graceful  naiads  sleep, 
There  are  stores  laid  up  of  coral  and  gold, 
In  measure  countless,  of  beauty  untold. 

There  are  spars  in  the  deep  sea  grot — 

That  rival  the  costliest  gem ; 
There  are  treasures  in  every  spot, 

In  valley  and  mountain  and  glen- 
There  are  costly  treasures  with  dangers  bought, 
And  priceless  treasures  that  come  unsought. 

There  are  treasures  the  wide  world  o'er, 

And  beauties  that  may  not  fade ; 
There  are  honors  that  will  endure, 

When  the  form  in  the  dust  is  laid ; 
There  are  wealth  and  fame,  and  love  that  will  last, 
Mayhap  till  our  wearisome  life  is  past. 

But  away  with  the  ocean  gem — 

Away  with  the  pearly  store — 
Away  with  the  rubied  diadem, 

And  your  heaps  of  shining  ore! 
I  seek  not  your  wealth  of  coral  and  gold, 
To  please  the  eye,  when  the  heart  is  cold. 

Away  with  your  beauty  and  fame, 

Your  diamonds  and  costly  stores; 
Away  with  your  crowns  of  earthly  reign, 

And  gifts  that  ocean  pours; 
Away  with  them  all!  I  bid  them  adieu— 
But  give  me,  instead,  a  heart  that  is  true ! 


418  THE  P OE 7 "8  OF  MA  JNE. 


Give  to  me  pure,  undying  truth, 

From  the  heart's  most  hidden  cell ; 
Give  me  the  answering  love  of  youth 

To  what  in  my  spirit  dwells ! 
O  grant  me,  in  one  heart's  inmost  core, 
A  responsive  chord,  and  I  ask  no  more ! 

O  LET  ME  DIE  IN  THE  SWEET  SPRING-TIME! 

O  let  me  die  in  the  sweet  spring-time, 

As  it  blooms  in  my  own  New  England  clime, 

When  waters,  bursting  their  ice-forged  chain, 

Send  a  leaping  thrill  into  every  vein; — 

When  grass  is  springing  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

And  flowerets  hide  in  the  forest  vale; 

When  croakings  rise  from  each  wayside  stream; 

When  insects  wake  from  their  winter  dream, 

And  their  piping  swells  to  a  joyous  hum, 

To  rival  the  song  of  the  birds  just  come; 

When  the  gales  bring  health  on  their  breezy  wing, 

And  the  heart  is  drunk  with  the  joy  of  spring; 

When  summer  heralds  are  almost  by, — 

On  a  sweet  spring  morning,  O  let  me  die ! 

Yes,  let  me  die  in  the  sweet  spring-time, 

In  the  heart  of  my  own  New  England  clime; 

Let  me  linger  on  through  its  joyous  hours, 

With  its  holy  voices  and  sweet-breathed  flowers, 

Swelling  its  love  with  the  joy  of  heaven, 

That  half,  to  my  waiting  soul  is  given — 

Till  some  clear,  bright  morn,  when  no  sound  is  heard 

But  the  silvery  notes  of  some  joyous  bird; 

When  the  sun's  first  rays  kiss  the  twilight  gloom, 

And  the  breath  of  May  fills  my  quiet  room, 

With  the  peace  of  God  in  my  death-pulsed  breast, 

Dear,  loved  ones,  watching  my  place  of  rest 

Then — thus — would  I  pillow  my  weary  head, — 
On  a  sweet  spring  morn  with  the  dreamless  dead. 


EXCELSIOR. 

SUGGESTED   BY    A   PICTURE. 

Higher!  yet  higher!  the  clouds  are  above  thee! 

Onward!  still  onward  thy  foot  to  its  way! 
Time  was  when  the  hills  and  the  plains  were  above  thee, 

And  thou  in  the  valley  seemed  willing  to  stay. 


ANNIE  S.  BROWN.  419 


See  there  the  waters ;  swift  they  are  flowing- 
Swift  as  the  moments  that  measure  our  breath ; 

There  was  thy  option,  to  watch  in  their  going 
The  bubbles,— or  join  in  Life's  battle  of  Death. 

The  pause  was  one  moment; — the  next  thou  wert  flying 

Far  over  the  valley  and  over  the  plain, 
With  soul-strong  endurance  thy  comrades  outvying, 

Though  bidding  them  still  to  the  conflict  amain ! 

The  plain  traveled  o'er  and  the  hillocks  surmounted, 

One  step  and  another  assisted  thy  way; 
Till  now  o'er  the  hill- tops  and  high  up  the  mountains 

Thy  Mentor-trained  mind  flings  its  limitless  sway. 

Yet,  onward !  still  onward,  thy  foot  is  essaying ! 

Grim  danger  and  toil  with  their  train  to  outbrave, 
Nor  wilt  pause  in  thy  striving  till,  Nature  obeying, 

Thou  sinkest,  time-worn,  to  the  rest  of  the  grave. 

And  then,  even  then,  shall  thy  God-given  spirit 

Bear  triumph  o'er  Death,  the  grim  conqueror  of  all, 

And  high  in  the  heaven  thou'st  sought,  shalt  inherit 
A  name  and  a  place  that  thy  Maker  shall  call. 

With  a  name  and  a  place  in  the  heavens  rewarded, 
Is  this  thy  ambition  when  earth  yields  her  youth  ? 

Then  high  be  thy  earth-name  for  goodness  recorded, 
And  seek  thou  for  greatness  in  virtue  and  truth. 

Not  yet  has  thy  foot  trod  the  point  of  the  highest; 

Nor  yet  has  thy  mind  found  the  sum  of  thy  might; 
The  strength  of  immortals  is  lent,  as  thou  fliest, 

And  triumph  shall  crown  the  bright  goal  of  thy  flight. 

Higher!  yet  higher!  the  clouds  are  above  thee! 

Stay  not  for  the  tempest-winged  arrows  of  earth ! 
Eagle-like,  onward!  nor  pause  when  the  lovely, 

The  proud  and  the  noble  acknowledge  thy  worth! 

Higher !  yet  higher !  the  clouds  shall  embrace  thee ! 

The  mountains  are  gained  and  their  cloud-caps  nigh-riven ! 
Stay  not  thy  course  till  the  stars  are  beneath  thee, 

And  entrance  is  made  at  the  portals  of  heaven! 

WILL  YOU  LOVE  ME  WHEN   I'M  OLD? 
When  these  sunny  days  are  vanished, 
When  the  charm  of  youth  is  fled, 


420  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

When  the  rosy  bloom  is  banished — 

Age's  frostiness,  instead — 
When  the  eye  has  lost  its  brilliance, 

And  the  voice  is  weak  and  old, 
Will  I  lose  this  heart-surveillance  ? 

Will  this  love  of  thine  grow  cold  ? 

****** 

We  are  plighted— we  are  plighted, 

In  a  fervent  love  and  true, 
And  we  wander,  heart-united, 

With  a  future  just  in  view; 
And  in  youth's  bright  summer  weather 

We  are  dreaming,  each  as  one, 
That  we,  side  by  side,  together 

Through  our  earthly  course  will  run. 

Life's  great  duties  all  attended, 

From  this  youth-time  up  to  age, — 
Safe,  together  may  be  ended 

All  our  work  on  life's  broad  stage; 
Safely  may  we  sleep  together 

In  the  calm  grave's  quiet  fold- 
Then,  ascending,  dwell  forever 

Where  no  being  e'er  grows  old. 


jjartol 

Geo.  E.  B.  Jackson  was  born  in  Portland,  Aug.  14,  1829.  He  taught  schools  after  his 
graduation  from  Bowdoin  College,  (class  1849),  in  Cape  Elizabeth,  Me.,  and  North  Ando- 
ver,  Mass.,  a  single  term  each;  engaged  in  legal  studies,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  of 
Cumberland  County,  October,  1852.  He  then  began  the  practice  in  Bath,  but  in  the  fol 
lowing  year  removed  to  Portland,  where  he  continued  in  his  profession  until  1865,  when 
he  became  Treasurer  of  the  Portland  Kol.ing  Mills.  He  resigned  that  position  in  1878 
having  been  elected  President  of  Maine  Central  Railroad,  which  office  he  held  until  his  res 
ignation,  1886.  He  has  been  for  several  years  on  the  Standing  Committee  of  the  Protest 
ant  Episcopal  Church,  Diocese  of  Maine,  and  Deputy  to  its  Convention,  as  also  to  the 
Triennial  General  Convention,  and  is  Senior  Warden  of  St.  Luke's  in  Portland.  In  1853, 
he  married  Cornelia  Stuyvesant  Ten  Broeck,  daughter  of  Rev.  Petrus  S.  Ten  Broeck  and 
has  had  three  children,  two  daughters  and  a  son,  also  a  graduate  of  Bowdoin.  Mr. 
Jackson  is  still  practicing  as  an  attorney  in  Portland,  and  is  held  in  the  highest  esteem 
both  in  social  and  business  life. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER'S  EASTER  HYMN. 

Soldiers,  awake !  this  is  the  festal  hour, 
Forth  from  the  grave  the  Saviour  Christ  has  risen, 
Garland  the  cross  with  flowers  and  fragrant  wreaths, 

The  Saviour  lives,  and  death  no  more  hath  power. 


EM IL  Y  PA  GE  WEBB .  42 1 


Soldiers,  arouse !  banish  all  Lenten  gloom, 
Let  sacred  joy  this  Easter  morn  attend, 
Jesus  hath  burst  the  mighty  bands  of  death, 

And  holy  angels  guard  the  riven  tomb. 

Soldiers,  to  prayer!  kneel  first  this  blessed  day 
To  Him  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  the  King  of  Kings; 
See  on  your  banner  His  redeeming  cross, 

And  there  your  motto,  "Ever  watch  and  pray." 

Soldiers,  to  arms!  forth  to  life's  battle-field, 
The  Spirit's  sword  your  only  trust  shall  be, 
While  on  your  brow  salvation's  helmet  rests, 

And  Christian  faith  protects  you  as  a  shield. 

Soldiers,  salute,  with  Heaven's  triumphant  host, 
Jesus,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  the  Conqueror! 
Yield  Him  the  homage  due  Almighty  God ; 

Worship  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost. 


gmib 


Emily  Page  Webb  was  born  in  Hartland,  a  small  manufacturing  town  on  the  Sebasti- 
cook  River,  about  1830.  Her  father's  house  commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  country  and 
the  river  where  it  leaped  the  falls,  and  dashed  its  white  current  against  the  rocky  islands. 
No  white  hand  of  winter  ever  stilled  its  murmurs,  and  no  hot  breath  of  summer  ever 
drank  up  its  sparkling  freshness.  The  broad,  low  hills  on  the  north  and  west,  and  a  dark 
green  line  of  forest  on  the  east  seemed  to  encircle  this  little  town  with  a  magic  charm, 
while  far  away  to  the  south  the  silver  line  of  the  river  rolled  its  way  through  the  mead 
ows.  Here,  amid  this  quiet  beaiity,  Emily  spent  her  childhood  and  youth.  Her  love  of 
poetry  and  talent  of  expressing  herself  in  verse  showed  itself  before  she  was  ten  years  of 
age.  Equally  strong  was  her  loving  desire  to  assist  her  mother:  picture  to  yourself  a 
slight  little  girl,  with  laughing  blue  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  working  before  school  in  the 
kitchen,  and,  at  the  same  time,  putting  her  fancies  into  words.  In  later  years,  no  house 
hold  work  ever  seemed  to  interfere  with  the  sweet  songs  she  had  to  sing.  When  she  was 
old  enough  to  attend  the  St.  Albans  Academy  her  poetic  power  was  soon  discovered,  and 
she  was  called  upon  to  write  for  the  lyceum  papers,  for  festivals  or  any  public  occasion 
where  wit  and  sentiment  were  required.  In  October,  18G1,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Luther 
H.  Webb,  her  schoolmate  and  lover  from  early  youth.  The  first  years  of  their  married 
life  were  spent  in  Hartland,  but  in  1875  they 'removed  to  Skowhegan,  where  they  still 
live.  She  is  the  mother  of  five  children,  two  girls  and  three  boys.  Nina,  her  first  child, 
died  in  early  infancy.  Her  domestic  nfe  has  been  a  happy  one,  where  parents  and  chil 
dren  are  congenial  spirits,  united  in  aim,  intellect  and  taste.  When  the  Woman's  Club 
was  organized  in  Skowhegan,  she  joined  and  was  made  secretary,  where  the  wit  and  bril 
liancy  of  her  reports  gave  her  a  high  standing  in  public  favor.  Since  then,  she  has  been 
president  of  the  Club,  and  "  poet  laureate  "  of  every  public  occasion.  Her  noble  woman 
hood,  her  tender  regard  for  the  feelings  of  others,  her  insight  and  tact  in  dealing  with 
those  around  her,  portray  a  character  of  rare  beauty  that  gives  added  charm  to  her  verse. 


THE  MOON'S  LULLABY. 

I  am  a  shepherd  who  wanders  on  high, 
Across  the  blue  pastures  way  up  in  the  sky, 
And  the  stars  are  my  sheep  with  fleeces  of  gold, 
That  shine  as  they  come  from  the  heavenly  fold ; 
And  the  shepherd  and  sheep  will  tenderly  keep 
The  dear  little  child  and  watch  it  asleep. 


422  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Sometimes  with  a  sickle  I  mount  up  the  west, 
With  one  little  lamb,  leaving  all  of  the  rest, 
And  scatter  my  sheaves  of  light  o'er  the  plain, 
As  harvesters  do  when  cutting  their  grain, 
But  I  leave  all  and  go  where  the  babe  nestles  low, 
Like  early  May-flowers  hiding  under  the  snow. 

When  night  holds  the  world  on  her  shadowy  breast, 

As  mothers  when  hushing  their  babies  to  rest, 

And  stilling  its  cries  she  bids  me  unlock 

The  door  of  my  fold  and  go  out  with  my  flock, 

Then  we  leave  the  bright  skies  for  the  darling  who  lies 

Asleep  in  her  crib  with  her  white-curtained  eyes. 

I  love  to  go  forth  on  my  silvery  beams, 

And  light  up  the  forests  and  dance  on  the  streams, 

And  look  at  the  treasures  known  only  to  me, 

Far  down  in  the  depths  of  the  wonderful  sea; 

But  I  leave  with  delight  for  only  a  sight 

Of  a  dear  little  head  on  its  pillow  so  white. 

Sleep  on,  precious  child,  and  my  glittering  train 
Shall  come  to  thy  window  and  look  through  the  pane, 
And  the  light  shall  come  out  of  each  golden  fleece 
And  encircle  thy  brow  with  a  halo  of  peace ; 
For  the  shepherd  and  sheep  will  tenderly  keep 
The  dear  little  child  and  watch  it  asleep. 


ANNA'S  BABY. 

O  where  did  you  find  the  starry  light 

That  always  lies  in  the  baby's  eyes, 

Like  a  glimpse  of  the  far-away  midnight  skies  ? 

And  the  mother  said,  "  I  wrought  by  faith 

On  the  very  border  land  of  Death ; 

For  while  men  slept  I  soared  afar, 

Where  the  deepest  shades  of  midnight  are, 

And  hid  in  my  bosom  a  wandering  star; 

It  trembled  and  shone  in  the  darkness  alone, 

Instinct  with  a  life  and  a  light  of  its  own. 

And  I  brought  it  down  from  the  realms  above, 

From  the  border  land  of  Death  and  Love, 

And  that  is  why  in  the  baby's  eyes 

You  see.  a  glimpse  of  the  midnight  skies." 


EMILY  PAGE  WEBB.  423 


And  where  did  you  find  the  dimples  sweet 
Playing  hide-and-seek  in  the  baby's  cheek, 
With  the  cooing  words  he  tries  to  speak  ? 
"  A  south  wind  soft  as  a  wind  can  be 
Touched  the  face  of  the  smiling  sea, 
And  the  dimples  rose  and  came  to  me; 
They  flew  o'er  the  baby's  cheek  and  chin, 
His  hands  and  feet,  and  I  kissed  them  in, 
And  covered  them  over  with  rose  leaves  thin ; 
But  they  come  and  go  with  a  soft  pink  glow, 
Now  flashing  above  and  now  hiding  below 
As  the  laughing  waters  ebb  and  flow, 
When  they  bring  my  baby's  charms  to  me, 
The  dimples  deep  from  the  smiling  sea." 


And  where  did  you  find  the  color  I  trace 
Like  the  bloom  of  flowers  in  his  little  face  ? 
It  often  glows  like  the  heart  of  a  rose 
When  first  its  dainty  leaves  unclose. 
"O  the  sun  was  shining  up  aloft, 
And  the  woods  were  cool,  and  the  air  was  soft, 
When  a  fairy  came  and  taught  me  the  art 
Of  painting  the  hue  of  a  rose's  heart; 
And  gave  me  power  in  he'r  sylvan  bower, 
Not  only  to  paint  the  hue  of  the  flower, 
But  catch  the  essence  of  all  its  bloom, 
So  one  could  breathe  its  rare  perfume ; 
And  I  worked  with  patient,  loving  grace 
Till  the  rose  bloomed  out  in  the  baby's  face." 


I  asked  her  where  in  the  earth  or  air 

She  found  his  rings  of  shining  hair  ? 

And  she  said,  "Do  you  know  when  the  shadows  creep 

Through  the  valleys  low  and  the  forests  deep, 

And  the  golden  sheep,  the  sun  doth  keep 

In  his  sunset  fields,  arise  from  sleep, 

And  sporting  at  will  through  the  pastures  there 

They  eat  their  fill  of  the  heavenly  fare, 

Then  wander  up  to  the  purple  bars 

To  wait  for  the  coming  of  the  stars? 

Then  I  plucked  a  fleece  of  this  radiant  wool, 

When  the  sun  was  low,  and  the  moon  was  full, 

And  spun  it  in  many  a  shining  thread 

For  a  halo  bright  for  my  darling's  head." 


424  THE  POKTS  OF  MAINK 


Yet  even  the  mother-love,  stronger  than  death, 
Can  never  search  out  God's  infinite  breath; 
Or  tell  us  the  way  a  mortal  can  trace 
A  little  white  soul  to  its  spirit's  birth-place. 
But  from  the  sun's  rise  till  he  set  in  the  west, 
And  the  star-lighted  skies  watch  mortals  at  rest 
Till  the  sleepy  bird  cries  in  the  soft  downy  nest, 
I  pierced  into  nature's  deep  mysteries, 
From  beauty  that  was,  and  beauty  that  is, 
.    I  gathered  those  wonderful  charms  of  his ; 
The  earth  and  the  sea  and  the  far  azure  space 
All  added  some  grace  to  his  form  or  his  face, 
The  sweetest  of  sweets,  the  brightest,  the  best, 
Love  sought  for  the  darling  who  lies  on  my  breast. 

REFLECTIONS  AT  NIGHT. 

When  at  night  I  try  to  reckon  what  the  day  to  me  has  brought, 
After  adding  all  the  figures  oft  I  find  the  sum  is  naught, 
For  my  life  is  full  of  action,  and  I  've  little  time  for  thought. 
And  I  often  do  from  impulse,  things  that  after,  as  I  wait, 
Seem  to  be  unjust  and  hasty,  but  reflection  comes  too  late, 
For  the  hour  of  reparation  may  have  shut  its  golden  gate. 
Patience  seems  to  sit  beside  me  like  a  spirit  heaven-born, 
Reading  the  neglected  lesson  that  she  gave  me  in  the  morn, 
Chiding  me  that  I  had  gathered,  not  life's  roses,  but  its  thorn. 
Look  backward  through  the  darkness,  up  the  buried  day's  account, 
Little  good  I  find  for  others  in  the  column  as  I  mount, 
Self  appears  the  central  figure,  and  a  cipher  the  amount. 
Love,  I  have  not  used  you  tender,  as  aforetime  I  have  said, 
Faith,  thou  art  away  beyond  me  in  the  blue  sky  overhead, 
Come  again,  and  I  will  follow  where  thou  hast  so  often  led. 
And  to-morrow,  sweet  to-morrow,  if  I  live  to  see  it  come, 
I'll  have  something  for  the  Master,  be  it  e'er  so  small  a  sum, 
And  the  teacher  will  remember,  when  his  scholars  lips  are  dumb. 

KINDNESS  RETURNED. 

As  streams  flowing  down  from  the  mountains, 

By  windings  no  mortal  can  wist, 
Appear  to  return  to  their  fountains 

At  sunset,  in  rainbows  of  mist; 

So  often,  some  deed  of  affection, 

In  youth,  more  tender  than  wise, 
Passed  away  from  our  own  recollection, 

Returns  in  some  loving  disguise. 


JULIA  A  UG  US  TA  NOR  TON  A  T  WO  01).  425 


Mrs.  Julia  A.  N.  Atwood  was  born  in  Boston,  March,  1830,  her  father  being  Benjamin 
H.  Norton,  of  Portland,  an  editor  of  various  publications  in  Massachusetts  and  Connect 
icut.  Mrs  Atwood  was  one  of  eight  children,  four  of  whom  died  young.  She  began  to 
write,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  and  accompanied  her  father  to  the 
port  of  Pictou,  N.  S.,  where  he  was  sent  as  United  States  Consul,  in  1849,  contributing  to 
the  papers  published  in  that  locality.  Some  years  later  she  returned  to  the  United 
States,  and  soon  after  wras  married  to  Mr  David  M.  Sleeper, of  East  Aiidover,  N.  H.  His 
health  being  poor,  they  went  to  Florida,  remained  there  several  months,  and,  later,  jour 
neyed  to  Saratoga,  N.  Y.,  and  then  Mr.  Sleeper  went  South  again,  while  our  author 
spent  the  winter  in  I  .'over,  N.  H.,  frequently  writing  for  the  Gazette  and  other  papers. 
Later,  at  the  residence  of  her  husband's  mother,  at  Boscawen,  N.  H.,  Mrs.  Sleeper  lost 
nearly  all  of  her  books,  manuscripts  and  published  articles  by  fire.  About  this  time  she 
went  to  Trinidad,  British  "West  Indies,  where  her  husband  had  preceded  her,  remaining 
there  a  year,  where  her  own  health  became  impaired  owing  to  the  prevalence  of  fever  in 
that  part  of  the  Island.  On  her  return  to  New  York  her  husband  died  of  consumption, 
two  days  after  their  arrival.  Shortly  after  this  evert  our  author  again  returned  to  Nova 
Scotia,  remaining  there  nearly  two  years,  w  th  her  lather,  who  was  still  U.  S.  Consul.  It 
was  at  that  time,  by  her  mother's  special  request,  that  she  began  to  write  a  book,  and 
for  many  months  it  occupied  her  attention.  Later,  she  returned  to  the  United  States, 
and  married  Mr.  William  Atwood,  of  Cape  Elizabeth,  where  they  resided  about  twenty 
years.  She  wrote  for  the  £rt:ry  Saturday  of  New  York,  about  this  time,  under  the  nom 
dephime  of  "  Vienta,"  also  for  the  Portland  Liaity  Frtss,  the  New  York  Era,  tfoah's 
Sunday  Times,  the  Kennebec  Journal,  etc.,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  After  the  death  of 
her  second  husband,  Mrs.  Atwood  went  to  Minnesota  and  Dakota.  After  some  two  years 
spent  in  the  West  she  returned  to  Portland,  where  she  now  resides,  and  is  still  a  contrib 
utor  to  the  press. 


THE  PINE  COOLIES*  OF  MINNESOTA. 

O  happy  day!  O  day  of  rest! 

Would  I  could  be  again, 
With  all  those  merry-hearted  ones, 

Within  that  rocky  glen ! 

Just  such  a  day,  just  such  an  hour, 
With  golden  glints  between; 

But  memory's  pen  with  magic  power 
Will  reproduce  the  scene. 

The  artist  in  the  cavern's  mouth, 
With  sketch-book  on  her  knee, 

Seeking  to  pencil  forth  the  scene, 
Ere  sunset's  tints  should  flee. 

There  were  noble  men  of  cultured  minds, 

And  ladies  fair  to  see, 
Now  gazing  up  with  wondering  eyes, 

Now  resting  'neath  a  tree. 

And  girlhood's  happy,  joyous  laugh 
Would  ring  throughout  the  glen, 

With  such  a  silvery,  rippling  sound, 
'T  would  snare  the  hearts  of  men. 

Properly  Canyons,  but  are  familiarly  called  "  Coolies." 
29 


426  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


So  bright  and  beauteous  was  the  scene, 

So  perfect  and  so  fair, — 
.Trees  covered  o'er  with  brightest  green, 

And  song-birds  in  the  air. 

Vast  rocks  piled  up  toward  the  sky, 
As  though  'twas  Nature's  throne, 

So  grandly  noble  it  all  seemed, 
Yet  meant  for  man  alone. 

O  would  that  I  could  picture  forth 

On  canvass  all  I  saw, 
And  give  to  others'  eyes  the  scene, 

Near  Mississippi's  shore. 

Tall  trees  of  ever-changing  hue, 

The  elm,  the  oak,  the  pine, 
And  many  others,  all  unknown, 

Would  greet  thy  gaze  and  mine. 

But  it  were  vain,  indeed,  in  me 

To  dare  portray  the  scene 
Which  God,  with  his  almighty  hand, 

Hath  framed  in  shades  of  green. 

Such  narrow  defiles, 'dark  and  steep, 

With  caverns  in  the  glen ! 
Such  depth  below,  such  height  above, 

Wrought  not  by  hand  of  men, 

But  by  One  mightier  far  than  they, 

Eternal  in  the  sky — 
The  God  who  made  us,  one  and  all, 

To  live,  to  move,  and  die; 

That,  dying,  we  might  live  again, 
In  brighter  worlds  than  this, 

And  wander  on  'neath  greener  trees, 
In  never  ending  bliss. 


\nmml  Mettrick 


Capt.  Samuel  P.  Cousins  was  born  in  Eden,  Hancock  County,  April  19,  1830,  and  has 
followed  the  sea  since  1841.  From  1852  to  1870  he  was  captain  of  vessels;  since  that  period 
he  has  been  a  successful  pilot  of  steamers.  His  ancestors  came  from  Kenuebunk  to  Mt. 
Desert  Island  soon  after  the  Revolutionary  War.  Through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Alex 
ander  W.  Longfellow,  whose  brothers,  Henry  W.  and  Samuel,  are-represented  in  this  vol 
ume,  we  are  permitted  to  select  the  following  entertaining  poems  from  Mr.  Cousins's 
MSS' volume. 


SAMUEL  FED  RICK  COUSINS.  427 


STEAMBOAT  DUDE. 

"Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds,  that  round  my  pathway  roar," 

Is  there  a  steam-boat's  deck  where  Cockneys  tramp  no  more  ? 

O  is  there  no  respite  from  the  tiresome  sound, 

Those  thick  soled,  creaking  boots,  my  pilot-house  around  ? 

The  wild  winds  its  career  did  for  a  moment  check, 

And  said:  "Thou  foolish  mortal,  not  a  deck! " 

Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep,  is  there  a  steam-boat  route 
Where  slim-legged  dandy's  never,  never  walk  about, 
Saying,  "Blarst  my  eyes,"  and  flourishing  their  canes, 
Wearing  Scotch  caps,  that  cover  hair,  not  brains  ? 
The  mighty  deep  made  answer,— echoed  far  the  shout, 
The  voice  of  many  waters,  "Not  a  route!"  •• 

Tell  me  thou  bright,  revivifying  sun, 

Is  there  no  favored  spot,  the  wide,  wide  seas  upon, 

Where  passengers  of  note  do  not  suppose  they  know 

More  than  the  captain  does,  and  when  the  boat  shall  go  ? 

The  very  sun  stood  still,  and  I  this  answer  got : 

"In  all  my  distant  rounds  I  shine  on  no  such  spot!" 

And  thou,  serenest  moon!  dost  thou  see  some  shore 
Where  rowdies  never  wait,  nor  dapper  dudes  "galore  ?" 
Where  "dead  beats"  never  come  to  beg  or  sly  their  way, 
And  bores,  that  to  the  pilot  house  delight  to  come  and  stay  ? 
The  moon  with  pitying  glance  said,  "  Question  me  no  more," 
And  Boreas  himself  began  to  fiercely  roar. 

Tell  me,  ye  twinkling  stars,  and  rid  me  of  my  woes, 
Is  there  a  steam-boat  line  where  no  dude  ever  goes  ? 
I  can  a  monster  bear,  though  filled  with  wrath  and  sin, 
But  save,  when  blows  a  gale,  if  dude  must  needs  be  in. 
One  little  star  looked  down  with  pity  on  its  face, 
And  murmured  with  a  sigh,  "  The  dude— an  awful  case!  " 


THE  CUTTER  "WATER  LILY." 

Were  I  a  "ready  writer,"  I  would  the  praises  swell 
Of  the  cutter  "  Water  Lily,"  her  mighty  deeds  to  tell; 
Of  her  cruise  to  Campobello,  and  of  her  most  daring  feat, 
That  one  important  capture  from  the  Yankee  fishing-fleet. 

The  Captain  of  the  cutter  had  heard  from  Ottawa 
That  the  wise-heads  there  assembled  had  lately  passed  a  law, 
Not  to  sell  another  herring  to  the  overbearing  "  Yanks," 
For  baiting  British  codfish  on  Canadian  fishing  banks. 


428  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Then  the  Captain  of  the  cutter  in  a  hurry  rushed  on  board, 

In  one  hand  he  held  a  pistol,  in  the  other  hand  a  sword; 

" Get  your  anchor  quick!"  he  shouted  in  the  first  lieutenant's  ear, 

"Take  a  drink  to  raise  your  courage,  and  for  Campobello  steer! 

"There's  a  Yankee  lays  at  anchor,  buying  bait,"  the  people  say, 
"  We  will  capture  him  or  sink  him — he  cannot  get  away, 
And  when  the  Queen  shall  listen  to  our  deeds  of  bravery 
She  will  make  of  you  a  Captain,  and  of  me  an  R.  C.  B !" 

They  found  the  Yankee  schooner,  and  they  anchored  handy  by, 
And  the  Lion  of  old  England  at  the  Jack-staff  they  did  fly; 
Said  the  Captain  of  the  schooner, — "What made  that  'critter'  come 
To  this  part  of  Campobello?  I  guess  he's  after  rum!11 

Said  the  Captain  of  the  cutter,  "Double  shot  your  heavy  gun, 
For  I  fear  the  '  blarsted  Yankee'  is  all  prepared  to  run ; 
Get  your  cutlasses  and  pistols,  lower  the  quarter-boats  away, 
And  board  the  Yankee  schooner  in  a  brave  and  dashing  way! 

"They  are  armed  with  forks  and  fish-knives,  and  are  devils  in  a  fight; 
With  a  sudden  rush  we'll  conquer— 'twill  te  a  splendid  sight! 
I  did  mean  to  lead  the  boarders,  but  at  this  moment  find 
I've  a  pain  across  my  stomach,  and  shall  have  to  stay  behind." 

Then  they  rushed  on  board  the  schooner,  and  "victory!"  they  did  shout 
Till  the  Yankee  skipper  questioned,  "What  is  all  this  fuss  about  ? 
I  wish  you'd  mind  your  business,  and  let  us  buy  our  bait, 
For  I  am  bound  to  Georges  and  can't  afford  to  wait." 

Then  said  the  brave  "leftenant,"  "Why,  blarst  your  Yankee  eyes! 
Don't  you  know  you  are  a  prisoner?  this  schooner  is  our  prize!" 
Up  spoke  the  Yankee  captain  then,— "If  you  take  this  craft  away, 
Your  one-boss,  knock-kneed  government,  will  have  the  bills  to  pay! 

"  When  I  arrive  at  Gloucester  you'll  hear  from  me  again, 
I'll  take  my  case  to  Butler,  whose  maiden  name  is  Ben; 
He  will  make  you  'pay  the  piper,'  because  he  knows  more  law 
Than  all  the  English  mutton-heads  that  fool  round  Ottawa!" 


The  Rt.  Eev.  Henry  Adams  Keely,  D.  D.,  second  Bishop  of  Maine,  was  born  in  Fay- 
etteville,  Onandaga  County,  Is.  Y..  ]VTay  14,  1830.  He  is  the  son  of  Albert  and  Pho?be 
Keely,  his  mother's  maiden  name  being  Pearsall,  a  Quaker  family,  while  his  father  was 
of  Huguenot  descent  on  one  side,  as  his  grandmother  was  a  Bevier.  Bishop  Keely  was 
graduated  at  Hobart  College,  Geneva,  N.  Y.,  in  1849.  and  was  a  Tutor  in  his  Alma  A/ater 
while  studying  Divinity  under  Bishop  DeLancey,  1850-52.  He  was  ordered  Deacon  Dec. 
19,  1852;  ordained  Priest,  June  18,  1854.  He  married  a  daughter  of  the  late  John  Dela- 


HENRY  ADAMS  NEELY.  429 


field,  for  many  years  a  prominent  banker  in  New  York  City,  subsequently  a  resident  of 
Geneva,  IS.  Y.,  and  first  President  of  the  State  Agricultural  Society  of  New  York.  The 
Bishop,  after  taking  Priest's  orders,  became  Rector  of  Calvary,  Utica,  N.  Y.,  1853-55; 
Christ's  Church,  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  1855-62;  Chaplain  of  Hobart  College,  18G2-G4,  when  he 
removed  to  New  York  City,  and  became  Assistant  Minister  in  Trinity,  with  charge  of 
Trinity  chapel,  where  he  remained  until  his  elevation  to  the  Episcopate,  lie  received 
the  degree  of  I).  D.  from  Hobart,  18C6.  He  was  consecrated  Bishop,  in  Trinity  chapel, 
New  York,  Jan.  25,  1867.  He  is  also  Rector  of  St.  Luke's,  Portland,  and  Dean  of  the 
Cathedral.  Writings— Occasional  sermons,  addresses,  hymns,  etc. 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS  ARE  RINGING. 

Christmas  bells  are  ringing, 
Christmas  Carols  singing, 
Blithe  and  glad  are  we  this  mom. 

Merrily  ring, 

Cheerily  sing, 
Tell  it  out  that  Christ  is  born, 

Christ  is  born. 

Angel  choirs  proclaiming, 
Shepherds  answer  making, 
Day  dispels  our  night  forlorn ; 

Merrily  ring,  &c. 

Christ,  salvation  bringing, 
Christ,  our  bruises  healing, 
Christ,  whose  beams  the  earth  adorn, 
Merrily  ring,  &c. 

Prophet,  life  disclosing, 
Priest,  our  sins  atoning, 
King  of  Kings  this  day  is  born. 

Merrily  ring,  &c. 
i 

Christmas  bells  are  ringing, 
Christmas  Carols  singing, 
Blithe  and  glad  are  we  this  morn. 

Merrily  ring,  &c. 


EASTER  HYMN. 

Lord  of  life,  from  death  begotten, 
Jesus!  First-fruits  of  the  tomb; 

Now,  the  cross  and  grave  forgotten, 
Shades  of  night,  and  Hades'  womb, 

Claim  Thy  birth-right,  Son  beloved, 
Take  Thy  throne,  O  mighty  King; 

Angels!  worship  Him  approved, 
Men !  let  earth  with  praises  ring. 

29* 


430  THE  POET 'S  OF  MAINE. 

Thou  hast  banished  all  our  sorrow, 
Thou  hast  wiped  away  our  tears; 

Faith  had  drooped,  but  this  glad  morrow 
Stills  our  doubts,  and  quells  our  fears. 

Jesus,  we  Thy  Name  confessing, 
Hail  Thee,  Life !  and  Light !  and  Lord ! 

Pour  on  us  Thine  Easter  blessing, 
Let  us  share  in  Thy  reward. 

Stooping,  Thou  didst  stoop  to  save  us, 
Dying,  Thou  for  us  didst  die ; 

Living,  by  Thy  life,  O  raise  us 
To  the  home  beyond  the  sky. 


THE  EASTER  REVEILLE. 

Rouse  ye,  sleepers  !    Hail  the  breaking 
Of  the  day  your  Lord  is  making 
Bright  and  glad  with  his  awaking; 

Hail  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  ! 

Rouse  ye,  sleepers  !    Death  is  telling 
How,  a  mighty  arm  compelling, 
Open  stands  his  dreary  dwelling; 

Hail  the  Lord  and  Prince  of  Life  ! 

Rouse  ye,  sleepers  !  See  the  token 
That  the  gates  of  hell  are  broken; 
Sure  His  promise  who  hath  spoken 

u  They  shall  fall  and  not  prevail." 

Rouse  ye,  sleepers  !    Seek  the  heaven 
(Cleansed  from  sin's  corrupting  leaven) 
Where,  amidst  the  mystic  seven, 

Christ,  a  King  triumphant,  reigns. 

Rouse  ye,  sleepers!  that  unfearing 
Ye  may  rise  at  His  appearing; 
Rise,  His  voice  of  welcome  hearing, 
"Enter  ye  the  promised  joy." 


jjxngs. 


J.  W.  Bangs  was  born  in  Augusta,  in  1830,  and  was  taken,  when  five  years  of  age,  by 
his  parents  into  Franklin  County,  living  first  in  New  Vineyard,  and  later  in  Farmington. 
He  received  a  fair  education  in  what  was  at  that  time  the  Farmington  Academy,  under 
Preceptor  Hamilton  Abbott.  Mr.  Bangs  afterward  kept  a  few  country  schools,  and  also 
taught  music,  finally  deciding  to  learn  the  trade  of  manufacturing,  in  which  he  has  been 
successful.  Early  in  life  Josiah  began  writing  verses,  and  has  always  been  fond  of  lit 
erary  work,  occasionally  giving  to  the  reading  world  the  fruits  of  his  leisure  moments. 
During  the  late  war  he  was  the  weekly  correspondent  of  the  Augusta  Age,  and  has  fur 
nished  short  articles  in  prose  and  verse  to  other  publications. 


THOMAS  ALDEN  CRAB  TREE.  431 


MY  MOTHER. 

I  sit  me  down  by  the  wayside  and  ponder, 
Of  such  beautiful  things,  though  things  of  the  past; 

The  present  is  now,  and  yet  "  over  yonder" 
The  future  of  this  life  forever  will  last. 

The  home  of  my  youth,  in  life's  rosy  morning, 
When  troubles  and  cares  my  heart  ne'er  beguiled, 

Comes  to  me  as  sweet  love  so  well  adorning 
The  innocent  life  of  a  thrice  happy  child. 

I  see  through  the  vista  of  clouds,  dark  and  drear, 
The  form  of  a  mother,  in  loveliness  given; 

Whose  lips  spoke  in  kindness,  my  young  heart  to  cheer, 
In  the  wayside  of  life,  which  ended  in  heaven. 

She  taught  me  to  love  and  work  for  the  Saviour; 

She  taught  me  to  pray  for  the  sins  of  the  past; 
She  taught  me  to  trust  for  each  day's  behavior; 

She  taught  me  to  hope  for  a  bright  crown  at  last. 

I  ne'er  can  forget  my  dear  sainted  mother, 
Whose  smile  often  cheered  me  in  life's  early  day; 

Of  all  earthly  friends,  I'll  ne'er  find  another 
So  kind  and  so  true,  as  I  pass  on  the  way. 


(jxzbtrtt. 


Thomas  A.  Crabtree  was  born  in  Franklin,  March  17,  1830,  and  worked  on  a  farm  until 
he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age,  when  he  commenced  teaching  school,  in  which  capacity 
he  has  been  engaged  until  the  present  time.  He  has,  also,  contributed  to  various  publi 
cations,  more  particularly  to  the  Portland  Transcript,  under  the  signature  of  "  T. 
Aldin  "  and  "  T.  A.  C."  His  present  home  is  at  Bangor. 

MY  CHILDREN'S  HOME. 

They  sweetly  sleep  on  yonder  hill  ; 
Though  years  have  rolled,  they  slumber  still, 
Nor  howling  winds,  nor  drifting  snows, 
Can  rouse  them  from  their  deep  repose. 

The  wild  vines  carpet  all  the  ground 
That  marks  each  little  sleeper's  mound; 
The  dew  that  gathers  on  each  leaf 
In  pearls  is  dropped  like  tears  of  grief. 

The  robin  comes  at  early  light, 
And  sings  while  all  is  sparkling  bright; 
The  whip-poor-will's  more  plaintive  call 
Is  heard  when  evening's  shadows  fall. 


432  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Oft  to  this  spot  at  close  of  day, 
I  pensively  have  sought  my  way, — 
Upon  each  grave  I've  dropped  a  tear, 
Yet  smiled  to  feel  that  God  was  near. 


MY  LITTLE  SHINING  STAR. 
See  ye  that  little  shining  star 

That  gems  the  vault  above — 
That  sparkles  brightly  on  the  dew, 

And  whispers  tales  of  love  ? 
For  me  that  little  star  doth  shine,— 
That  little  sparkling  star  is  mine. 

I've  watched  it  oft,  from  days  of  yore, 

Its  light  is  cheering  still; 
Though  kings  may  dwell  in  gilded  halls, 

And  rule  the  earth  at  will, 
Their  power  there  I  do  defy— 
My  little  sparkling  star  so  high. 

And  when  life's  toilsome  day  is  o'er, 

And  I  am  called  away, 
That  little  star  will  be  my  guide 

To  reach  Eternal  Day; 
And  evermore  its  rays  so  bright 
Will  sparkle  on  my  gaze  at  night. 


CONSOLATION. 

O  weep  not  for  swift  fleeing  years, 
Though  life  is  formed  of  joys  and  tears, 
And  were  this  life  our  all  below, 
Our  tears  would  never  cease  to  flow; 
No  Saviour's  love,  the  world  to  save, 
No  dust  to  dust,  no  peaceful  grave, 
No  thoughts  of  God,  no  sweet  hope  given, 
No  future  life,  no  rest  in  heaven. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 
Cold  winter  with  his  chilling  blast 
Has  left  our  fields  and  groves  at  last; 
He's  loath  to  go,  and  looks  with  spite, 
And  oft  returns  and  chills  the  night. 

But  yet  he  knows  that  he  must  go, 
He's  gathered  up  his  robe  of  snow, 
And  where  his  icy  hand  was  seen 
Are  bursting  buds  and  grasses  green. 


CHARLES  F.  FOSTER.  433 


Rev.  C.  F.  Foster  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass.,  (now  part  of  Boston)  May  27,  1830. 
His  impulses  toward  imaginative  and  fictitious  literature,  and  the  formation  of  his  style, 
he  regards  as  due  to  the  influence  of  his  early  teacher,  Mr.  W.  T.  Adams,  better  known 
as  "  Oliver  Optic."  Mr.  Foster  graduated  at  Colby  University  in  1855,  and  subsequently 
took  a  course  in  theology  at  the  Newton  Institution.  His  residence  in  Maine  extended 
over  most  of  the  period  from  1849  to  1861,  during  which  time  he  was  pastor  at  Biddeford 
and  Yarmouth.  He  has  since  had  charge  of  the  children  in  the  State  Primary  School  at 
Monsoii,  Mass.,  for  eleven  years,  and  has  held  his  present  position  as  City  Superintend 
ent  of  Public  Schools  in  Chester,  Pa.,  for  ten  years. 


MAINE  TO  CALIFORNIA. 

Maine  sendetli  greeting  to  the  distant  West; 
Across  the  continent  our  hands  are  pressed; 
We  hail  the  skill  which  on  fair  Science  waits, 
To  crown  anew  the  sister-hood  of  States. 

The  mountain  barrier  lifts  in  vain  its  head, 
The  awe  which  wrapped  its  stern  old  front  is  fled ; 
Through  prairie  bloom,  or  o'er  the  rocky  waste, 
A  highway  spreads,  and  fleet-winged  couriers  haste. 

A  closer  union  marks  this  glorious  day, 

Though  South  and  North  are  ranged  in  hostile  fray, 

Loyal  New  England,  with  her  sons  of  steel, 

Still  holds  thee,  California,  true  and  leal. 

As  from  thy  vine-clad  vales  and  golden  streams 
The  emigrant  looks  back  and  fondly  dreams, 
What  messages  the  beating  wires  shall  tell, 
And  make  the  land  contiguous  where  we  dwell. 

O'er  the  gigantic  forest- tops  of  thine 
Shall  float  the  music  of  our  harps  of  pine; 
And  freshening  gales  on  thy  Pacific  shore 
Leap  to  the  echo  of  the  Atlantic's  roar. 

The  sunset  hour  on  old  Katahdin's  crest, 
With  tardier  beam  on  thy  Sierras  rest, 
And  so,  with  message  swifter  than  the  light, 
At  eve,  we  bid  thy  toiling  world  good  night. 

God  save  thee,  on  thy  peaceful  western  shore, 
Amidst  the  war-storm's  desecrating  roar; 
God  save  the  country;  may  the  flag  float  free 
O'er  one  united  land  from  sea  to  sea. 


434  THE  POETK  OF  MAINE. 

THE  WARRIOR'S  FOUNTAIN. 

[It  5s  said,  that  in  one  of  the  battles  of  the  Crimea,  a  cannon  ball  very  opportunely 
opened  a  subterranean  spring,  in  which  the  soldiers,  overcome  with  fatigue,  were  able  to 
quench  their  thirst.  The  incident  has  suggested  the  following  lines.] 

The  sombre  drapery  of  war 

Hung  o'er  the  reeking  battle  plain, 
And  wreathed  its  sable  folds  afar, 

To  canopy  the  fallen  slain. 
Through  smoke  and  dust  the  shining  steel 

Pursued  its  devastating  way, 
And  boisterous  shout  and  cannon's  peal 

Told  where  the  victor's  column  lay. 

Now  turbaned  head  and  Cossack  plume 

Flit  o'er  the  scene  like  vagrant  dreams, 
And  now  amid  the  parted  gloom 

The  crest  of  Frank  and  Briton  gleams. 
And  still  the  stream  of  carnage  wide 

Shall  sweep,  though  heaven  her  light  deny,  . 
Till  cross  and  crescent  side  by  side 

Upon  the  crimson  turf  shall  lie. 

Ah!  who  can  name  the  forms  of  dread 

That  hover  o'er  the  woeful  hour, — 
That  haunt  the  dying,  stamp  the  dead 

With  emblems  of  their  fiendish  power! 
There  struggles  many  a  fainting  hope, 

There's  many  an  agony  of  fear; 
And  many  an  eye  is  dimmed,  to  ope 

No  more  on  objects  loved  and  dear. 

But  now,  the  warrior's  arm  grows  faint, 

And  feebler  are  the  victor's  cries,— 
They  die  with  thirst,— the  sad  complaint 

On  parched  lips  in  anguish  flies. 
As  once  on  Horeb,  Israel  stood, 

The  fainting  remnant  of  a  host, 
And  there,  in  wild  despairing  mood, 

In  madness  raved  of  Egypt's  boast, — 
So  thirsting  armies  on  the  field 

Of  conflict  dire  with  frenzy  burn, 
And  prostrate  spirits,  forced  to  yield, 

O'er  past  enjoyments  feebly  yearn. 

"Give,  give  us  drink,"  is  still  the  prayer 

With  piteous  tone  and  earnest  cry; 
When,  quick  upon  the  scorching  air, 

A  courier  of  death  sweeps  by. 


ABB  IE  S  LEMONS. 


Through  ranks  of  living  men  it  hies, 
Its  path  is  lined  and  paved  with  gore; 

Yet  speed  it  on ;— f or  who  now  dies 
Shall  bring  new  life  to  hundreds  more. 

It  furrows  deep  the  blood-stained  earth, 

It  seeks  a  shelter  'neath  the  sod; 
And  to  as  cool  a  fount  gives  birth 

As  erst  obeyed  the  prophet's  rod. 
Thus  oft  along  the  path  of  ill 

There  comes  a  messenger  of  good, 
With  terror,  first,  the  soul  to  thrill, 

But  fraught  with  life  when  nearer  viewed, 


Miss  Abbie  Siemens 
Aug.  3,  1803 
the  greater  port 
Her  mother  was 


youngest  of  the  family,  and  when  quite  young  removed  with  her  parents  to  Corvdon 
Ind.,  where  other  members  of  the  family  had  precede,!  them  Abbie  fs  represented  to' 
have  been  the  life  of  the  household,  intelligent,  quick-witted,  fond  of  pets,  and  devoted 
to  her  friends  Her  education  was  completed  at  the  Northwestern  University  in  Indi 
anapolis,  where  she  was  highly  appreciated.  She  had  the  honor  of  writing  tl£  Co  - 
mencement  poem.  For  many  years  she  wrote  and  published  verses  in  the  Western  pacers 
Sfij'-fiS'Sh^^-S^1^  to  *«Go£el  BanrJr  and  Vth^Mn  ne  pffi 


than  her  physical  strength,  stood  with  many  others  for  hours  in  the  dust  and  he'at  of  a 
£?JA™^1_^^J^  to  the  ™ary  and  .famished  soldiers.    The  intense  excite^ 


. 

The  wives  of  Capt.  James  Alden,  of 


THE  OLD  CLOCK. 

LINES   ADDRESSED   TO    AN  OLD   CLOCK,    DURING   ONE   OF   THOSE   HOURS 

"  WHEN   THE    FIRE   WOULD   NOT   BURN   ON   THE   HEARTH, 

AND    CLOUDS    SHUT   OUT   THE    SKY." 

Tick  on,  old  clock,  tick  on,  tick  on ! 
Why  on  sad  moments  dwell  so  long  ? 
Moments  that  once  sped  swiftly  by, 
As  the  freed  wild  bird  cleaves  the  sky; 
Ah,  me!  more  leaden-winged  they've  grown 
Since  then,  old  clock,  tick  on,  tick  on! 


430  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Tick  on,  old  clock — tick  out  the  years ; 
Tick  out  life's  sorrows,  cares,  and  fears — 
Its  hollow  joys — its  secret  pain — 
Its  tears  that  fell  like  summer  rain — 
Its  aching  void— its  deep  unrest — 
Its  noble  impulses  repressed— 
Its  memories,— a  ghostly  throng- 
Its  doubt,  its  dread— tick  on,  tick  on ! 

Tick  on,  old  clock,  to  this  smooth  brow- 
Bring  furrows,  for  I  care  not  now; 
To  these  brown  locks  bring  silver-gray, 
Sweep  every  trace  of  youth  away ! 
Youth,  with  its  bright  but  broken  dreams, 
Its  joys  like  sunlight  upon  streams. 

Its  thrilling  pulse,  its  visions  high, 
Its  wild,  wild  hopes  that  spring  to  die ; 
Its  castles,  baseless,  built  on  air — 
Its  soaring  faith,  its  deep  despair — 
Its  idols,  broken,  or  o'erthrown— 
Tick  on,  old  clock,  tick  on,  tick  on! 

Tick  on !  above  the  buried  Past 

Heap  up  the  life-sands  thick  and  fast ! 

Hide  where  mossy  marbles  press 

Hearts  of  life-long  tenderness ; 

Hide  where  bitter  strifes  have  been; 

Hide  where  ruined  altars  gleam, 

Hide  where  poisoned  fountains  pour 

Sweetness  on  the  waste  no  more; 

And  where  trampled  flowers  are  strown— 

Tick  on,  old  clock,  tick  on,  tick  on! 

Tick  on,  old  monitor!  and  tear 

The  veil  that  coming  sorrows  wear; 

Unmask  them — and  reveal  to  me 

The  dread  invisible  to  be. 

I  know  the  picture  may  be  drear, 

With  faint,  few  smiles,  and  many  a  tear; 

I  know  it  may  be  overcast 

With  storm  and  clouds,  from  first  to  last,- 

I  know  it  must  have  much  of  gloom, 
Pain,  toil,  care,  weariness, — the  tomb ! 
But  O  if  yet  one  star  appears, 
Amid  the  thickening  gloom  of  years— 


ABB  IE  S  LEMONS.  437 


If  to  some  dream  and  sterile  steep 

Clings  yet  one  flower,  lone,  wild,  and  sweet — 

The  dearer  that  it  is  but  one — 

Tick  on,  old  clock,  tick  on,  tick  on ! 


TO  MRS.  M.  E.  N. 

Lady,  thou  hast  likened  me 
To  a  gem  beneath  the  sea; 
Hiding,  shrinking  far  below 
Where   the  blue  waves  in  their  flow 
Make  unceasing  jubilee. 
But  O  I  think  the  sea-gem's  fate 
Most  lonely,  cold,  and  desolate  ;— 
Lady!  list,  I'll  weave  for  thee 
A  brighter,  prouder  simile. 

Lady,  thou  art  like  a  star 
'Mid  the  radiant  ranks  afar 
Lightening  up  the  midnight  waves, 
Piercing  oceans'  trackless  caves: 
There  thou  gleamest  on  a  stone, 
Rayless,  voiceless,  cold  and  lone, — 
But  amid  thy  warm  rays  then 
Seeming  something  like  a  gem. 
Lady,  let  that  quick'ning  ray 
Cheer  its  darksome  fate  alway. 

Lady,  am  I  then  a  flower 
Doomed  to  waste  its  little  hour — 
Its  little  need  of  light  and  bloom 
Alone — amid  the  desert's  gloom, 
Uncherished  by  one  fostering  hand, 
By  none  but  desert  breezes  fanned  ? 
Lady,  it  were  a  cheerless  lot; 
If  this  be  mine — O  name  it  not ! 

Lady,  thou  hast  heard  it  told 

How  once  in  the  deserts  old, 

A  wretch,  by  toil  and  travel  worn, 

Without  one  friend  to  cheer  or  mourn, 

Sank  down  amid  the  sands  to  die ; 

When  lo!  a  flower  he  chanced  to  spy, 

A  lonely  blooming  desert-flower,— 


438  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


To  him  it  seemed  a  priceless  dower — 
For  close  beside  a  gushing  spring 
It  grew,  the  wee,  wild,  winsome  thing ! 
Lady,  O  be  that  spring  to  me, 
If  I  a  desert-flowTer  must  be. 


VALENTINE. 

A  thought  for  thee  ?    The  boon  is  thine. 

When  morning  dewdrops  gem  the  lea, 
When  noon  is  bright,  when  eve  is  gray, 

When  trembling  "  stars  look  on  the  sea." 

In  April  hours  of  cloud  and  sun, 
When  starry  shapes  are  in  the  grass, 

When  winds  are  musical  and  low, 
And  scatter  perfumes  as  they  pass; 

When  sweet  sounds  whisper  in  the  air, 
v  And  poet  voices  in  the  stream; 
And  glancing  wings  are  everywhere. 
And  life  is  all  one  fairy  dream; 

One  fairy  dream  of  hope  and  joy, 
One  April  dream  of  love  and  bliss, 

One  May-time  dream  of  song  and  bloom, 
One  summer  dream  of  loveliness; — 

As  young  buds  swell  unto  their  prime, 

As  waves  go  singing  to  the  sea, 
As  sweet  thoughts  form  themselves  to  rhyme, 

My  deep  heart  sings  itself  to  thee. 


THE  PALSIED  HEART. 

ON  READING  IN  u  THE    SOUTHERN   LITERARY   MESSENGER*'  A  STORY  WITH 
THE    ABOVE    TITLE. 

She  was  a  being  formed  for  happiness, 

A  buoyant  heart  was  hers,  and  sunny  eye, 
And  a  sweet  spirit  where  no  bitterness, 

Marring  its  purity,  might  ever  lie. 
Her  heart  was  a  deep  fount  wherein  a  spring 
Of  healing  waters,  blessing  everything 
That  came  within  their  influence,  had  birth, 
And  mirrored  all  things  beautiful  on  earth, 


ABB  IK  SLEMONS.  439 


Yet  not  all  things  of  beauty,  for  her  own 

Bright  image  never  was  reflected  there, 
Save  through  another's,  round  whose  life  was  thrown 

Weak  woman's  guerdon  of  unwearying  care. 
And  his  one  image  had  o'ershadowed  it 

Since  first  to  drink  of  its  sweet  tide  he  strove, 
And,  lingering  still  to  gaze  into  its  depths, 

Stirred  the  bright  waters  with  the  breath  of  love. 

He  was  her  idol — and  upon  his  shrine 
The  passionate  worship  of  a  life  was  flung, 

Like  incense  offered  to  a  thing  divine, 
And  by  its  fervor  her  deep  heart  was  strung 

For  suffering  and  for  endurance,  too, 

And  even  resignation— for  though  few 

Her  hours  of  sunshine,  yet  that  love  gave  power 

And  courage  even  in  the  darkest  hour. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  flame  died  on  the  altar, 

Her  heart  gave  one  deep,  passionate  throb  of  pain, 
And  then  with  look  and  tone  no  more  to  falter, 

She  only  said— "I  cannot  love  again." 
The  rest  is  but  an  oft-repeated  story — 

'T  was  love  that  made  life  dear,  and  love  was  dead — 
'Twas  that  had  richened  it  with  hues  of  glory, 

And  it  seemed  worthless  now  that  they  had  fled. 

"And  so  she  died"— as  a  sweet  flower  departeth, 

Drooping  in  silence,  passed  she  unto  death — 
Unto  the  dreamless  rest  that  soonest  seemeth 

To  await  the  lovely  and  the  good  of  earth. 
O  such  is  woman — such  her  ministry; 

Such  is  her  love,  and  such  too  oft  its  dower, 

Man's  loftier  intellect  may  spurn  its  sway 

To  her,  love  is  like  sunshine  to  the  flower. 

It  is  her  very  life,  her  light,  her  air; 

Her  dew,  her  prop,  her  shield,  her  element; 
Her  past,  her  future,  and  her  present  care; 

Hopes,  wishes,  memories,  fancies,  fears  are  blent 
In  that  one  word;  she  never  breathes  a  prayer — 

No  voiceless  aspiration  ever  gleams 
Athwart  her  soul,  that  hath  not  impulse  there, 

And  does  not  wear  the  color  of  her  dreams. 

But  O  if  that  free  air  hath  chilly  grown, 
And  fled  that  rich  light  from  the  frowning  heaven, 


440  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Exhaled  those  morning  dew-drops,  one  by  one, 
That  tender  shield  by  rushing  storm- winds  riven,- 

Not  like  that  flower,  that  when  the  storm  is  o'er 
Puts  forth  new  buds  to  grace  a  sunnier  hour, 

The  heart's  wrung  tendrils  learn  to  twine  no  more, 
For  human  love  bears  but  one  perfect  flower. 

A  yielding,  dreaming,  trembling,  trusting'.thing, 

Was  woman  ever,  and  will  ever  be ; 
O'er  man's  imperial  nature  born  to  fling 

A  wreath  of  beauty,  love  and  poesy; 
To  read  her  fiat  on  his  lordly  brow, 

To  catch  her  meed  of  sunshine  from  his  eye, 
To  listen  to  one  footstep,  and  to  bow 

Her  soul  to  one  deep  voice's  melody. 

And  what  is  she  to  him  ?— a  flower— a  song— 
A  breath  of  sweetness  on  the  summer  breeze — 

A  momentary  charm,  scarce  missed  when  gone — 
And  scarce  remembered — even  such  as  these  1 


TO  MARY. 

"  I  have  a  passion  for  the  name  of  Mary." 

Thou  ask'st  from  the  muse's  shrine 
A  leaf  to  pluck  and  cast  on  thine,— 
Accept  the  simple  wreath  I  twine. 

Brief  is  the  time  since  we  have  met, 
Our  partings  scarce  have  woke  regret, 
Our  meetings  scarcely  joy  as  yet. 

Three  short  and  flitting  months  ago, 
I  ne'er  had  looked  upon  thy  brow, 
Or  marked  thy  chestnut  ringlets'  flow. 

Or  pressed  thy  hand  or  kissed  thy  cheek, 
Or  named  thy  name  so  softly  sweet, 
Or  dreamed  that  we  should  ever  meet. 

We  ne'er  have  sat  in  summer  bowers, 
And  twined  each  other's  hair  with  flowers, 
In  childhood's  free  and  laughing  hours, 

When  hearts  flush  into  love  as  soon 
As  buds  break  into  flowers  in  June, 
Or  a  bird's  gladness  into  tune, 


ABBIE  SLEMONS.  441 


Or  met  beside  the  blazing  hearth, 
Where,  amid  careless  song  and  mirth, 
Deep  friendships  oft  have  had  their  birth. 

Ne'er  have  we  wandered  hand  in  hand, 
Through  the  bright  realms  of  fairy  land, 
Where  fair  Titania  waves  her  wand ; 

Together   watched  a  sunset  fade, 

Together  sang,  or  danced,  or  played, 

Or  hoped,  or  dreamed,  or  wept,  or  prayed; 

Or  felt  our  deep  hearts  thrill  as  one, 
Beneath  the  spell  by  genius  flung, — 
Yes — we  are-  strangers,  gentle  one ! 

But  there's  a  charm  in  thy  sweet  name, 
A  spell  of  love,  a  sound  of  fame, 
That  binds  me  with  its  magic  chain. 

A  Mary  I  have  never  met, 
But  her  sweet  memory  was  set 
Within  my  heart  and  lingers  yet. 

And  thou,  I  know,  art  good  and  true, 

I've  read  it  in  thine  eyes  of  blue, 

When  the  pure  soul  looked  sweetly  through. 

And  so,  farewell!  may  sorrow  throw, 
Or  pain,  or  care,  or  aught  below, 
No  shadow  on  thy  heart  or  brow. 

But  may  thy  life  glide  sweetly  on, 
Resplendent  as  a  cloud  of  morn, 
Reflecting  all  the  hues  of  dawn, — 

Until  adown  the  darkening  West 
It  sinks,  still  beautiful,  to  rest 
Amid  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 


OUR  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 

"  'T  is  the  home  of  our  childhood,  the  beautiful  spot 
Which  the  memory  retains  when  all  else  is  forgot." 

Our  childhood's  home!  our  childhood's  home! 
There's  magic  in  the  words,  the  tone, 
And  music  in  the  accents  dear 
That  none  indifferently  may  hear 
Whoe'er  the  lengthened  pang  hnve  known 
Of  exile  from  dear  childhood's  home. 


442  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Our  childhood's  home!  our  childhood's  home! 
Contains  the  earth  in  other  zone 
A  spot  so  fair,  where  thus  the  light 
Of  morning  lingers  till  the  night  ? 
Though  shadows  compass  us,  ah,  none 
May  reach  our  Eden-childhood's  home! 

Dear  childhood's  home!  dear  childhood's  home! 

In  vain  we  rear  the  sculptured  dome, 

And  ply  the  cunning  hand  of  art 

With  costly  skill  to  cheat  the  heart;* 

The  wayward  thing  must  needs  be  flown, 

To  nestle  in  its  childhood11  s  home! 

Our  childhood's  home!  our  childhood's  home! 

In  vain  o'er  earth's  expanse  we  roam, 

Or  seek  exemption  from  the  band 

That  binds  us  to  our  native  land;— 

One  chord  still  draws  us  to  our  own — 

The  memory  of  our  childhood's  home! 

Our  childhood's  home!  our  childhood's  home! 

To  change  all  earthly  things  are  prone — 

Life  hath  no  sorrow  like  the  fear 

Of  change  in  what  it  holds  most  dear; 

All  feelings  change,  or  may,  save  one — 

The  love  we  bear  our  childhood'1  s  home! 

My  childhood's  home!  my  childhood's  home! 
The  stranger  calls  thee  now  his  own; 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  think  that  he 
Will  learn  to  love  thee  e'en  like  me, 
And  that  his  children  when  they  roam 
Should  pine  for  thee— my  childhood's  home! 

O  childhood's  home!  O  childhood's  home! 
Let  shadows  haunt  thy  dingles  lone; 
Let  forms  that  sleep  in  distant  lands 
Return  and  wave  their  spectral  hands, 
And  in  the  voices  of  the  gone 
Bid  him  depart,  O  childhood's  home! 

Dear  childhood's  home!  dear  childhood's  home! 

To  thee  in  blissful  dreams  I  come ; 

In  dreams  I  hail  each  cherished  tree, 

That  sheltered  my  young  heart  of  glee ; 

In  dreams  I  hear  the  pine's  low  moan, 

The  wild-bird's  song,  dear  childhood's  home! 


M A E  Y  JA  NE  LEIGHTON.  443 


Lost  childhood's  home!  lost  childhood's  home! 
Let  silence  brood,  and  fears  and  gloom 
Upon  thy  hearth ;  at  evening  dare 
No  laughing  group  to  gather  there, 
No  foot  to  press  thy  threshold  stone, 
Forever  more,  lost  childhood's  home! 


$;me  Brighton. 


Mary  .lane  Leighton  was  born  in  Saco,  July  9,  1830,  and  educated  in  the  public  Gram 
mar-school  of  tbat  village.  Her  mother  died,  leaving  her  motherless  at  an  early  age 
and  her  father  married  a  second  time.  She  early  united  with  the  Unitarian  Church  of 
Saco.  under  the  pastorate  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  J.  T.  G.  Nichols,  and  remained  a  devoted  mem 
ber  during  her  life.  As  her  father's  pecuniary  circumstances  were  limited,  she  was 
obliged  to  begin  early  to  labor  for  her  support,  but  she  used  her  leisure  time  for  study 
Her  earliest  poetical  production  appeared  in  1850,  after  which  she  continued  to  write  occa 
sionally  while  she  lived.  She  died  in  Wakefield,  Mass.,  Feb.  14  1872  where  she  was  at 
work  in  the  cane  factory  of  Mr.  Waketield.  Her  remains  were  brought  to  Saco  for  inter 
ment,  and  the  following  poetry  from  her  pen  was  read  by  Dr.  Nichols  who  was  the  offici 
ating  clergyman  at  her  funeral. 


THOUGHTS  OP  HEAVEN. 

I  am  all  thin  and  weak, 

And  sinking  to  decay; 
The  hectic  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

My  life  flows  fast  away. 

0  lovely  are  my  dreams 

Of  those  bright  worlds  afar! 

And  nearer,  dearer,  to  me  seems 

The  home  where  angels  are ! 

1  cannot  fear  to  die, — 
Death  will  not  from  me  take 

That  blessed  immortality,— 
That  life  to  which  I  wake. 

Above  my  lowly  bed 

Will  willows  droop  and  pine ; 
But  friends  need  not  to  bow  the  head 

That  such  cold  sleep  be  mine. 

O  spirit  soon  to  be 

Free  from  this  mortal  strife, 
How  wilt  thou  joy  those  streams  to  see- 

Of  high,  eternal  life ! 

Thou  never  more  shalt  thirst! 

Nor  think  of  woe  or  blight! 
For  living  founts  shall  ceaseless  burst 

Upon  thine  eager  sight. 


444  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  GOOD  IMMORTAL. 

We  look  upon  the  countless  sins 
Which  cast  a  shadow  on  the  earth  ; — 

We  see  with  grief  the  guilt  which  flings 
A  gloom  near  things  of  holy  birth. 

We  fear  lest  the  dark,  cruel  deed 
Shall  scatter  misery  everywhere, 

And  think  lest  crime  with  its  dark  brow 
Shall  blot  out  all  that's  good  and  fair. 

But  let  us  look,  too,  with  glad  hope, 
Upon  the  good  that  round  us  lies, 

For  never  does  a  daytime  pass 

But  Friendship,  with  her  tender  eyes, 

A  loving  glance  upon  us  casts; — 
A  gentle  word  speaks  for  our  ear; 

And  some  kind,  thoughtful  act  is  done 
To  make  a  way  for  us  more  clear. 

How  many  gushing  tears  are  shed 

In  secret  for  another's  woe; 
How  many  loving  prayers  are  said 

For  us  by  those  we  never  know. 

How  many  a  struggle  in  the  soul 

Is  wrought  for  the  pure  love  of  right; 

How  many  whom  we  thoughtless  deem 
Are  searching"  for  the  heavenly  light. 

"It  is  my  faith"  that  each  good  deed 
Is  colored  with  immortal  dies, 

That  it  shall  always  have  on  earth, 
And  live,  too,  always  in  the  skies. 

"It  is  my  faith"  that  all  the  wrong, 
Shall  by  the  right  be  triumphed  o'er; 

That  every  heart  shall  learn  at  last 
The  loving  Father  to  adore. 

How  could  an  angel  fold  its  wing 
And  look  on  heaven  with  joyful  eyes, 

If  there  were  one  lost  soul  to  bring 
Up  to  the  height  of  paradise  ? 

Yes,  from  all  woe,  and  from  all  sin, 
From  every  gloom  and  every  night, 

There  shall  spring  up  a  ray  divine, 
And  shed  o'er  all  eternal  light. 


EDWARD  PAY  SON  THWING.  445 


'hwing. 


Edward  Payson  Thwing,  M.  J).  was  born  at  Ware,  Mass.,  Aug.  25,  1830.  Removed  to 
Boston  and  entered  Eliot  School,  1837;  graduated  with  the  Franklin  Medal,  1845;  High 
School,  1815-47;  in  business,  1817-9;  graduated  at  Monson  Academy,  1851,  at  Harvard  Col 
lege,  1855,  at  Andover  Seminary,  1858;  subsequently  received,  on  examination,  the  Doc- 
trate  in  Philosophy,  and  on  completion  of  a  full  course  at  Long  Island  College  Hospital, 
the  Doctrate  in  Medicine,  also  in  1887  the  Gold  Medal  for  Literary  and  Scientific  merit 
from  the  London  Society  of  Science,  Letters  and  Art.  Founder,  and  four  years  presi 
dent,  of  the  Academy  of  Anthropology,  New  York;  member  of  the  British  Medical 
Association;  Corresponding  Member  Victoria  Institute  Brooklyn  Academy  of  Science, 
and  associate  editor  of  the  Medico-Legal  Journal,  New  York.  Dr.  Thwing  is  author  of 
various  religious,  rhetorical  and  medical  publications;  a  book  011  foreign  travel,  a  compi 
lation  of  "Standard  Hymns,"  and  of  many  tracts  and  leaflets,  some  of  which  have  been 
printed  in  five  languages.  He  spent  eight  years  in  pastoral  and  ministerial  labor  (Congre 
gational)  in  Portland  and  Westbrook,  five  in  Quincy,  Mass.,  and  fourteen  in  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y.,  his  present  home;  seven  summers  in  Europe,  preaching,  lecturing,  and  visiting 
hospitals.  Was  elected  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  Vocal  Culture,  1870,  at  (rorham  Semi 
nary;  repeated  the  lectures  at  Kent's  Hill,  Oxford  Normal  Institute,  Little  Blue  and  else 
where;  was  tour  years  professor  iu  the  Lay  College,  Brooklyn,  and  is  at  present  Profes 
sor  of  Psychology  in  the  New  York  Academy  of  Anthropology. 


TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY  GEN.  JOSHUA  L.  CHAMBERLAIN. 

Fresh  from  fields  of  civic  triumph, 

Welcome  we  our  honored  chief; 
Bearer  of  the  sword  and  olive, 

Laurels  of  unwithering  leaf. 
Welcome,  welcome.  Scholar!  Soldier! 
Honored  Chief! 

As  of  old,  Minerva's  shrine 

Echoed  to  thy  willing  feet, 
Here  to-day  her  children  stand 

Gladly  thee  once  more  to  greet. 
Welcome,  welcome,  Scholar!  Soldier! 
Honored  Chief! 

To  thy  brow  may  coming  years 
Add  new  honors,  high  and  bright; 

And,  above,  may  angel  bands 
Welcome  thee  to  endless  light. 

Welcome,  welcome,  Scholar!  Soldier! 
Honored  Chief! 


CROWNING  THE  TEMPERANCE  BANNER. 
Unfurl  your  banner  to  the  breeze, 

Lift  now  its  starry  folds  on  high ; 
For  One  above  this  emblem  sees, 
And  listens  to  our  loyal  cry. 

Sound  out  the  bugle  notes  aloud ! 

Let  drum-beat  echo  forth  its  call! 
And  waiting  bands  around  it  crowd — 

Our  sons  and  daughters— faithful  all. 


446  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Too  long  our  foes  have  proudly  ruled ; 

Too  long  our  homes  their  ruin  borne; 
Our  hearts  in  sorrow  have  been  schooled, 

O'er  many  a  loved  one  called  to  mourn. 

Hope  crowns  our  banner  now  with  flowers, 
Faith  onward  points  our  joyful  way,. 

And  when  the  battle  darkly  lowers, 
Love  by  its  side  shall  ever  stay. 

Defend,  O  Lord  of  Hosts !  we  pray, 
This  standard  which  we  raise  to  thee ; 

And  lead  our  army  night  and  day, 
And  crown  our  cause  with  victory. 


arxh 


Mrs.  Marden,  the  daughter  of  Arvida  and  Almira  Loring  Hayford,  was  born  in  Ban 
gor,  but  her  early  life  was  spent  in  Yarmouth  and  Portland,  and  a  few  years  also  with 
her  parents,  in  beautiful  Belfast,—  »  most  lovely  spot  some  three  miles  from  the  city. 
Iheir  residence  was  on  such  high  ground  that  the  bay  was  finely  in  sight,  and  here  her 
remarkably  able  and  lovable  mother  mingled  her  songs  and  stories  with  the  glorious 
views  in  such  a  manner  that  the  dreamy  mind  of  her  child  formed  from  them  a  spell 
that  has  always  clung  to  those  seaward  windows.  Mrs.  Warden's  next  residence  was  at 
Bangor,  where,  with  a  bright  circle  of  classmates,  she  graduated  at  the  High-school. 
Ihen  came  a  season  full  of  opportunity  and  pleasure  at  the  boarding-school  of  the  Mis 
ses  Lyman.  at  Old  Cambridge,  Mass.  Her  marriage  occurred  in  18C2,  to  Rev.  George  N. 
Marden,  of  Concord,  N.  H.  Their  longest  pastorates  have  been  in  Farmington  Me  and 
in  South  Weymouth,  Mass.  In  1880  Mr.  Marden  became  Professor  in  Colorado  College 
whose  seat  is  at  Colorado  Springs,  where,  Avith  an  only  child,  a  daughter,  thev  have  a 
sunny  home.  Mrs.  Marden's  first  published  bits  of  poetry  appeared  in  the  WaterrWe 
Mcnf,  later  in  a  work  entitled  "  Lelia's  Offering,"  and  in  the  "  Native  Poets  of  Maine," 
published  at  Bangor.  Many  of  her  poetical  gems  have  been  extensively  circulated  Of 
late  years  she  has  written  more  prose  than  verse,  and  the  Christian  Mirror,  the  Chris- 
tian  Union,  the  Journal  of  Commerce,  and  other  publications  have  been  enriched  with 
contributions  from  her  pen. 


DAME  HILDRETH'S  MAY-DAY. 

The  sun  it  was  out,  and  the  sun  it  was  in, 

Sifted  well  on  the  white,  spotless  floor; 
The  birds  had  come  back  with  their  news  and  their  plans 

Well-nigh  to  the  neat  cottage-door; 
There  was  hope  in  the  trees,  and  the  song  in  the  brook, 

And  the  touch  of  life  everywhere; 
And  the  dame  was  the  picture,  well  worth  and  well  framed, 

By  the  porch  in  her  low  rocking-chair. 

Her  kerchief  was  white  and  her  soft  hair  was  white, 

But  her  eyes  were  the  deepest  of  gray; 
Her  cheek  it  was  fair  and  her  mouth  it  was  firm, 

And  a  grace  in  her  whole  figure  lay. 


SAR  A  H  HA  YFOR  D  MA  EDEN.  447 


You'll  paint  her  ?— but  yet  there -is  something  beyond— 

A  shadow,  perhaps,  or  a  pain — 
That  your  brush,  with  its  delicate  temper,  will  heed, 

And  will  catch  but  to  lose  it  again. 

All  day  have  the  children  been  gladsome  and  blithe, 

All  the  day  has  the  world  called  in  joy; 
Dame  Hildreth  has  answered  with  only  a  nod; 

She  is  thinking — about  her  boy. 
There's  a  wound  in  her  heart  and  a  moan  011  her  lips, 

In  the  saddest  and  heaviest  key: 
"It  cannot  be  right,  and  it  must  not  be  wrong; 

Dear  Lord,  thou  must  show  it  to  me !" 

'Tis  a  year  and  a  day  since  there  came  to  her  side 

A  woman  both  wicked  and  young, 
And  into  a  heart  full  of  love  and  of  faith 

These  embers  she,  pitiless,  flung: 
"Your  son  was  too  good  for  the  bold  gypsy  maid! 

Your  God — counts  the  hairs  of  your  head! 
I'll  tell  you  no  tale,  but  the  sea  knows  its  own; 

I  saw  your  boy  last,  and— dead." 

The  neighbors  went  in,  and  the  neighbors  came  out, 

The  kettle  sang  on  just  the  same; 
The  minister  spake  and  the  minister  prayed, 

But  few  were  the  words  of  the  dame. 
It  was  only  the  moan  in  her  heart  that  welled  up, 

Whatever  the  minute  might  be : 
"It  cannot  be  right,  and  it  must  not  be  wrong; 

Dear  Lord,  thou  must  show  it  to  me! 

"I'm  dazed  and  aweary,  my  Lord  and  my  God; 

My  ringers  thy  promises  find, 
But  when  I  would  hear  or  would  praise  or  would  see, 

I  am  deaf,  and  I  'in  dumb  and  I  'm  blind. 
Thou  hast  taught  me  so  long,  and  I  'm  patient  to  learn, 

But,  Lord,  didst  thou  will  this  to  be  ? 
All  the  loss  and  the  grief  and  the  wicked  distrust, 

Dear  Lord,  thou  must  show  it  to  me !" 

With  folded  hands  still  and  with  loyal  heart  wrung, 

With  a  face  set  in  sadness,  but  sweet, 
Dame  Hildreth  sat,  heedless  of  music  and  shout 

And  the  patter  of  hurrying  feet. 
As  the  sun  it  fell  low  and  the  shadows  grew  long, 

And  the  neighbors  passed  one  by  one, 
Dame  Hildreth  uplifted  her  steadfast  gray  eyes 

And  beheld,  in  the  gateway,  her  son. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


MY  TWO'YOUNG  OAKS. 

Near  by  my  ample  door, 

Gracing  its  entrance  o'er, 

Stalwart  and  brave  were  my  glad  young  trees ; 
And  they  threw  their  branches  out  to  the  breeze 
In  their  thrifty  length,  with  an  easy  strength 
That  told  of  their  growing  power. 

Fine  germ  and  soil  and  space 
And  largess  each  of  grace — 
From  trunk  to  tip  the  swift  life-tide 
Serenely  sprang;  and  side  by  side 
Their  generous  shade  a  shelter  made 
For  any  passing  near. 

And  I !     How  can  I  tell 
Their  tender,  precious  spell, — 
I  took  to  them  daily  my  joys  and  fears, 
Uplooking — though  I  knew  twice  their  years — 
And  their  swaying  song,  through  the  whole  night  long, 
Was  an  ever-present  rest. 

They  tempered  every  breeze, 

My  gentle,  kind  young  trees; 

And,  through  their  tossing  foliage  bright, 

I  toned  and  framed  each  pleasant  sight — 

In  north  hill-land  or  south  stream  blandv 

My  oaks  were  half  its  wealth. 

The  Past,  how  rich  it  seemed, 
The  Future,  how  it  gleamed! 
As  with  folded  hands  or  in  mute  caress 
I  leaned  and  smiled  in  my  tenderness, 
Though  down  the  west  the  sun  sought  rest 
In  his  glory  grand  but  grave. 

There  came  a  day— two  days, 
When  nature  changed  her  ways, 

Stormy  and  fierce  was  her  battle-cry. 

She  passed  the  weak — the  strong  must  die, 

While  my  frightened  face  I  hid  a  space; 
My  two  young  oaks  were  gone! 

Transplanted  did  you  say? 
I  know  they  are  away; 

And  the  summer  is  hot  and  the  winter  is  cold. 
"God  gave ?"     I  know,  and  1  am  not  bold. 
He  has  love  so  long  and  a  love  so  strong 
I  will  hold  to  His  kingly  hand. 


SARAH  HA  YFORD  HARDEN.  449 


Near  by  my  ample  door 
My  young  oaks  stand  no  more. 
Stooping  to  look  for  each  sign  and  trace 
Two  infant  oaks  in  wondrous  grace 
Reach  up  to  me  so  trustfully — 

These,  too,  the  Lord  hath  given. 

MY  GIRLIE. 

Tossing  curls  of  chestnut  brown, 
Frock  of  white  and  sash  of  blue, 

Tripping  feet  and  good-by  shout — 
So  the  corner  shuts  from  view 
My  Girlie. 

And  I  pause  with  folded  hands, 

Looking  where  the  brightness  fled — 

Smoothing  with  my  daily  prayer 
Paths  the  little  one  may  tread — 
My  Girlie. 

Dolly  lying  on  the  bed  — 
Open  book  and  game  and  toy, 

Mind  me  of  my  plaything  sweet, 
Of  my  life's  great  hope  and  joy— 
My  Girlie. 

Little  garments  fine  and  neat, 
Dainty  boot  and  ribbon  rare — 

How  I  thank  the  dear  Lord  now 
For  the  beauty  she  may  share — 
My  Girlie. 

White  hairs  check  my  braids  of  black, 
Papa  counts  them  with  a  frown, 

But  I  point  with  smiling  face 
To  the  head  so  like  his  own— 
My  Girlie. 

Bursts  of  song  and  childish  glee, 
Unroll  half  my  scroll  of  life; 

Her  tears  plunge  my  thought  anew 
In  each  old,  forgotten  strife— 
My  Girlie. 

Night  has  brought  my  pet  to  find 
Prayer  and  pillow  by  my  side; 

Have  I  Christ's  sweet  patience  shown,  - 
Granted  well — and  well  denied 
My  Girlie  ? 


450 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


One  errs  not  rior  sleeps  nor  tires. 

Lord — Thou  must  not  trust  to  me; 
Please  through  paths  both  safe  and  bright 

Lead  each  step  the  way  to  thec, 
My  Girlie. 


s  jjhinnw  jjaxter. 


James  Phinney  Baxter  was  born  in  Gorham,  Me.,  March  23,  1831,  and  was  the  sou  of 
Elihu  Baxter,  M.  D.  Mr.  Baxter  has  been  a  successful  merchant  and  manufacturer, 
and,  as  a  public  contribution  from  his  ample  fortune,  is  now  erecting  an  elegant  building 
on  Congress  street,  just  above  Congress  Square,  in  Portland,  to  be  given  to  the  Public 
Library  and  to  the  Maine  Historical  Society,  of  which  latter  organization  he  is  Vice- 
President.  He  was  early  a  contributor  to  the  Hew  York  Home  Journal,  Shillaber's  Car 
pet  Bag,  Godey's  Lady's  Bonk  and  other  publications.  He  wrote  poems,  also,  for  the 
Longfellow  celebration  and  Prof.  Packard's  birthday.  Of  late  he  has  given  his  attention 
to  historical  work,  arid  has  had  the  "  Trelawny  Papers"  published  by  the  Maine  His- 


tion  of  his  poetical  work  has  been  published  in  a  little  volume  called  "  Idyls  of  the  Year. 


FLOOD. 


Out  from  the  east,  O  sea ! 
Dawn's  kisses  still  aglow 
Upon  thy  breasts  of  snow, 

Thou  flowest  unto  me. 

The  echo  of  a  song, 
Whose  meaning  hearts  translate, 
To  suit  each  fleeting  state, 

Thy  billows  bear  along. 

To  one  a  dirge  it  seems, 
Leaving  a  trace  of  pain ; 
To  one  a  sweet  refrain, 

Bringing  elysian  dreams. 

But  unto  me,  O  sea ! 
Thy  song  majestic  swells 
With  triumph  which  foretells 

Things  glorious  to  be. 


For  all  my  buoyant  hopes 
Are  ships,  with  every  thread 
Of  snowy  canvas  spread, — 

Slant  masts,  and  straining  ropes. 

They  come, — a  gallant  fleet, 
Bound  home  from  Orient  ports, 
Laden  with  richer  sorts 

Of  merchandise,  I  ween. 

No  spoil  of  land  or  sea, 
Nor  handiwork  of  art 
Treasured  in  costliest  mart, 

But  hither  comes  to  me, 

Borne  upon  ideal  ships 

With  sails  more  light  than  air, 
And  pennons  passing  fair, 

Unkissed  by  zephyr's  lips. 


Richer  than  sceptered  king, 
All  things  are  made  for  me, 
On  land,  in  air,  and  sea ! — 

I  can  but  sing. 


JAMES  PHINXEY  BAXTER.  451 


MAY. 

From  a  green  osier  in  the  sun, 
Tossing  bright  bubbles  one  by  one, 
She  sees  with  glee  her  gay  worlds,  spun 
From  vapory  light,  their  cycles  run. 
Her  flute-like  laughter  all  the  day 
With  witchery  fills  the  balmy  air, 
Which  toying  with  her  sunny  hair 
Weaves  many  a  flossy  toil  and  snare 
For  loiterers  by  the  wray. 

In  meadows  veiled  with  misty  light 
She  hears  the  herd-bells  with  delight, 
And  the  mad  mirth  of  brooks  which  smite 
The  lagging  wheels  to  swifter  flight ; 
While  the  lark,  lost  to  earthly  gaze, 
With  music  fills  the  heavenly  leas, 
Luring  her  thoughts  to  haunts  of  ease, 
Where  isles  of  pearl  on  azure  seas 
Float  in  a  dreamy  maze. 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE. 
(SWEET-IDLENESS.) 

The  day  o'er-brims  with  splendor  like  a  rose ; 

No  hint  of  storm  is  in  the  far-off  sky; 
I  watch  the  blue  sea  as  it  comes  and  goes 

Beneath  my  eye. 

Toward  the  mirroring  waters  slowly  dips 
The  broad- winged  gull,  and,  rising,  seaward  glides ; 

Toward  the  city  toil  the  laboring  ships 
On  favoring  tides. 

There  comes  to  me  the  tumult  of  the  keys, 

The  murmur  of  the  marts,  and  scents  which  be  ar 

Me  into  zones  where  every  passing  breeze 
Is  a  sweet  snare, — 

A  lure  to  languor.     Ah,  but  what  of  this! 

I  must  the  sweet  spell  shatter,  and  away; 
And  midst  the  mart's  moil,  where  gray  Duty  is, 

Wear  out  the  day: 


452  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


For  Duty  saith,  "Life  is  too  real  a  thing 

To  waste  in  worthless  ways, 
For  bread  men  moan, 

For  soul  and  body,  bread, 
'Twere  shame  to  bring 

Them  but  a  stone." 
I  glance  down  shame-f aced-wise !  "Tistrue,"  1  sigh; 

Then  goldenly  the  sun  gilds  dome  and  spire, 
And  then  an  oriole  goes  sparkling  by,— 

A  winged  lire, — 
And  a  fair  city  of  a  long  dead  day 

Beameth  before  me.  and  the  gleam  of  gear, — 
Broad  shield,  and  billowy  plume,  and  bannerol  gay, 

And  lissome  spear, 
Leashed  hound  and  hooded  hawk,  and  rare-robed  dames, 

And  knights  who  curb  tall  steeds;  and  to  my  ear 
"  Sir  Launcelot!  Sir  Galahead!"— glorious  names— 

The  soft  winds  bear. 
And  the  sound  stirs  my  soul  as  doth  the  air 

A  slumbering  lyre;  and,  come  whatever  may, 
I  am  lost  to  the  world  and  all  its  care 

For  one  brief  day; 

And  gathering  glory  in  the  tourney  field 

Will  I  forget  my  time,  and  be  as  one 
Who  weareth  mail,  and  beareth  lance  and  shield 

Till  set  of  sun, 

And  winneth  glance  of  damosels  whose  lips, 

As  they  would  fain  be  kissed,  smile  down  on  him: 
For  thoughts  skim  silent  centuries,  as  swift  ships 

The  oceans  skim. 
So  will  I  have  one  joyous  holiday, 

Despite  of  men  and  marts  and  merchandise, — 
A  little  tide  in  pleasant  fields  to  stray, 

'  Neath  cloudless  skies. 


wnmth   (jj. 


Mrs.  H.  E.  M.  Allen,  known  in  the  literary  world  as  "  Rose  San  born,"  was  born  among 
the  hills  of  old  Oxford,  at  Paris,  Oct.  6,  1831.  Her  maiden  name  was  Maxim,  and  she 
was  reared  on  a  farm,  in  a  rural  neighborhood  where  educational  privileges  were  few. 
She  began  to  write  prose  and  verse  when  quite  young;  spent  several  terms  at  Hebron 
Academy,  and  the  Oxford  Normal  Institute,  at  South  Paris,  and  taught  d  strict  schools 
for  several  years.  She  married  John  W.  Allen,  a  native  of  West  Minot,  Me.,  but  then  a 
resident  of  Southern  Iowa,  where  he  had  been  for  several  years  Principal  of  an  Acad 
emy.  Since  then,  Mrs.  Allen  has  lived  in  various  States  of  the  Union,  her  husband's 
impaired  health  having  made  a  change  of  climate  necessary,  from  time  to  time.  Mrs. 
Allen  is  now  living  at  Agnew,  Lancaster  County,  Nebraska. 


HANNAH  E.  M.  ALLEN.  453 


THE  STORY  OF  A  QUEEN. 

Because  the  blood  of  kings  ran  in  her  veins 

Love  was  forbidden  her.     A  sacrifice 

Upon  the  altar  of  the  state,  she  wore 

Her  orange  blossoms  on  a  joyless  brow; 

Nor  could  the  blaze  of  diamonds  flashing  through 

Soft  mists  of  bridal  lace,  or  shimmering  lights 

Of  gorgeous  satins  falling  to  her  feet, 

So  dazzle  her  sad  eyes  that  she  saw  not 

The  spectre  sitting  at  her  wedding  feast. 

No  lover  he,  who  ringed  her  slender  hand 

And  laid  a  bridegroom's  kiss  upon  her  cheek. 

No  lover  she,  beholding  on  his  brow, 

The  aureole  of  demi-god  or  saint. 

Yet  from  that  hour,  so  runs  the  tale,  she  took 

Love's  marble  image,  Duty,  to  her  heart. 

As  it  were  Love  himself;  and  even  wore 

The  dignity  of  wifehood  royally, 

Striving  to  lend  her  home  its  utmost  grace; 

Nor  sought  to  drink  from  a  forbidden  cup 

The  wine  of  life. 

At  last  a  princely  boy 
Came,  an  embodied  sunbeam,  to  her  arms 
Then,  day  by  day,  the  fair  young  mother  bore 
The  dimpled  prattler  to  his  father's  knee; 
Nor  ever  chilling  look  or  angry  word 
Availed  to  fright  her  from  her  loving  task, 
Until  the  kisses  of  his  innocent  child 
Unsealed  at  last  within  his  bosom  springs 
That  touched  their  arid  home-life  into  bloom, 
And  he  was  drawn  by  those  small  baby  hands 
Back  to  paths  of  virtue  and  of  peace. 
Thus  late  she  won  her  wifehood's  rightful  crown, 
More  precious  far  than  queenly  diadem— 
Her  husband's  heart,  and  Duty's  lifeless  form 
Was  quickened  by  the  living  soul  of  Love; 
As  in  the  ancient  myths,  the  sculptor  saw 
The  marble  shape  of  rarest  loveliness 

His  hand  had  wrought,  grow  warm  with  blood  and  breath, 
The  pale  lips  blossom  red  and  the  white  lids 
Uplift  from  tender  eyes  that  smiled  in  his. 

MOUNT  PLEASANT. 

'Twas  a  glorious  scene— the  mountain  height 
Aflame  with  sunset's  gorgeous  light. 


454  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Even  the  black  pines,  grim  and  old, 
Transfigured  stood  with  crowns  of  gold. 

There  on  a  hoary  crag  we  stood, 
When  the  tide  of  glory  was  at  its  flood. 

Close  by  our  feet,  the  mountain's  child, 
The  delicate  harebell,  sweetly  smiled, 

Lifting  its  cups  of  tender  blue 

From  seam  and  rift  where  the  mosses  grew. 

The  everlasting's  mimic  snow 
Whitened  the  dry,  brown  grass  below, 

While  the  yellow  plumes  of  golden-rod 
Through  clumps  of  starry  asters  glowed. 

And  the  sumach's  ruddy  fires  burned  through 
The  tangled  hazels  of  duller  hue. 

Below  stretched  wide  the  skirt  of  wood 

Where  the  maple's  green  was  dashed  with  blood, 

Where  the  beech  had  donned  a  golden  brown 
And  the  poplar  was  gay  in  a  yellow  gown, 

And  the  straight  birch  stems  gleamed  white  between 
The  sombre  spruces,  darkly  green. 

Clasping  the  mountain's  very  feet, 
The  small  lake  lay,  a  picture-sheet 

Where  the  pomp  of  sunset  cloud  and  shine 
Glowed  in  a  setting  of  dark  old  pine. 

Far  in  the  west,  blue  peaks  arose, — 
One  with  a  crest  of  glittering  snows, — 

With  hill  and  valley  and  wood  between, 
And  lakes  transfused  with  the  sunset  sheen. 

Over  the  line  of  sky  and  hill, 

Strange  cloud-shapes  tossed  at  the  wind's  fierce  will, 

Drifting  and  shifting,  till  lo !  at  last 
A  shadowy  cross  rose  grim  and  vast. 

But  the  sunset's  gold  behind  it  fringed 
Its  ragged  edges  leaden-tinged, 

And  over  its  dusky  length  was  spread 
Such  a  flush  of  purple  and  rich  rose-red. 

The  grim  shape  seemed  but  an  omen  bright, 
Crowning  our  bridal  eve  with  light. 


HANNAH  E.  M.  ALLEN.  455 


With  hands  enclasped  and  raptured  gaze, 
We  watched  it  in  a  sweet  amaze, 

Till,  drifting  up  the  zenith's  blue, 
It  melted  slowly  from  our  view, 

While  the  far  hilltops'  saffron  glows 
Shifted  to  amethyst  and  rose, 

And  the  dark  old  pines  grew  darker  still 
As  the  deepening  dusk  crept  up  the  hill. 

Many  long  years  have  slipped  away 
Since  we  stood  there  011  our' bridal  day, — 

Years  that  have  brought  the  noon-tide  heat 
For  the  dew  of  morning  cool  and  sweet; 

Yet  ever  the  cross  that  hung  above 

Has  been  touched  with  the  sunset  hues  of  love. 


A   YELLOW  BIKD  IN  WINTER. 

Across  a  drear  white  waste  of  snow, 
A  sweet  familiar  warble  came, 

And  lo !  upon  a  bare,  brown  bough, 
A  tiny  bit  of  yellow  flame. 

80  strange  it  seemed  that,  while  I  heard, 
Forgotten  was  the  wintry  gloom; 

I  felt  my  heart  within  me  stirred 

By  summer's  breath  of  balm  and  bloom. 

I  seemed  to  hear  the  answering  note 
From  his  shy  mate  among  the  leaves ; 

To  see  the  thistle-down  afloat, 
From  which  his  dainty  nest  he  weaves ; 

And  the  far  purple  hill-tops  swim 
In  shimmering  heats  of  August  days; 

Across  the  blue,  the  swallows  skim; 
Beside  the  brook,  the  cardinals  blaze. 

Gone,  gone,  alas !    A  glint  of  gold 

Lost  quickly  on  a  leaden  sky; 
Did  I  in  fancy  but  behold 

A  singing  sunbeam  glancing  by  ? 


45«  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


I  know  not.     I  but  know  there  came 
New  sweetness  into  life  that  clay; 

The  flashing  of  that  wing  of  flame 
A  thread  of  gold  shot  through  the  gray. 


BABY'S  GRAVE. 

Only  a  rose-bush.     In  my  grief  I  said 

This  sacred  spot  no  cold  white  stone  should  bear ; 

Only  a  rose-bush,  set  with  loving  care, 
Should  mark  the  place;  and  lo!  as  summers  sped, 
It  seemed  no  more  a  grave  but  a  rose-bed. 

Now  plucking  the  red  seed-cups  from  the  bush, 

The  warm,  rich  after-glow  of  its  June  flush, 
I  find  at  last  the  memory  of  my  dead 
So  painless  grown,  so  beautiful  and  sweet, 
That  even  a  passing  sigh  seems  half  unmeet; 
And  I  but  pause  to  lift  a  voiceless  prayer 
That  ever  this  dead  grief  of  mine  may  bear 
Roses  of  faith  and  hope,  whose  blossoming 
May  unto  other  lives  some  fragrance  bring. 


THE  SCARLET  FROCK. 

Vision  of  all  loveliness, 
Baby  in  his  scarlet  dress ! 
Half  I  guess  some  tropic  flower 
Has  just  blossomed  in  your  bovver; 
Or  rare  bird  from  palmy  isle 
Dropped  into  your  nest  awhile ; 
Such  a  dainty  red-bird  he, 
Dancing  on  his  mother's  knee. 

Yet  mine  eyes  are  growing  dim, 
Looking,  bless  his  heart !  at  him ; 
For  I '  ve  laid  my  baby  down 
In  a  little  snow-white  gown. 
Where  my  darling's  face  is  hid 
Under  grassy  coverlid, 
Summer's  roses  bloom  and  die; 
Winter's  stainless  snow- wreaths  lie. 

Yet  more  blest  than  you,  mayhap, 
With  your  cherub  in  your  lap, 
Feasting  on  his  budding  charms, — 
I  who  sit  with  empty  arms. 


HENRY  RAND  EDWARDS.  467 


Yours  the  toil  and  anxious  thought, 
His  white  soul  to  keep  from  spot, 
Yours  the  ceaseless  watch  and  prayer; 
God  hath  taken  my  sweet  care. 

While  you  clasp  your  winsome  sprite 
In  his  scarlet  plumage  dight. 
Press  to  yours  his  mouth  of  rose, 
Fold  his  living  sweetness  close, 
I  can  see  by  faith  my  own, 
Wearing  white  and  white  alone. 
God  shall  keep  my  lamb  from  hence 
In  immortal  innocence. 


Henry  R.  Edwards  was  born  Dec.  22.  1831,  on  the  farm  that  he  now  occupies  in  Lin 
coln,  Me.,  when  it  was  a  mere  clearing  iu  the  wilderness.  He  was  reared  to  farm-labor 
with  such  meagre  school  advantages  as  the  town  afforded,  but  after  he  was  twenty  years  of 
age  made  efforts  to  enlarge  his  knowledge  with  commendable  zeal.  He  went  West  with  the 
intention  of  becoming  a  teacher,  but  owing  to  incurable  deafness  which  camo  on  in  his 
absence,  was  obliged  to  return  home  and  fall  back  on  "  bone  and  sinew  "  for  the  support 
of  himself  and  family.  Mr.  Edwards  has  always  been  a  passionate  lover  of  books,  and 
though  his  opportunities  1o  cultivate  literary  talent  have  been  necessarily  limited,  he  is 
classed  as  a  well-read  man,  and  has  written  many  /ears  with  acceptation  for  some  of  the 
best  journals  in  the  State.  "  The  Closing  Year,"  a  grange  poem,  from  Mr.  Edwards's  pen, 
has  been  much  admired.  He  is  at  present  occupying  the  editorial  chair  of  the  Up  River 
News.  As  a  prose  writer,  Mr.  Edwards  has  produced  some  unique  and  interesting  articles. 


ECCLESIASTES. 

Not  now  for  the  joyous  and  gay  I  write, 

For  my  heart  is  oppressed  with  a  strange  unrest, 
And  my  spirit  quails  and  withers  like  blight 
In  the  chilling  shade  of  some  terrible  night, 

As  the  pale  moon  sinks  in  the  west. 
For  Morven's  legions  are  marching  to-night, 
The  sheen  of  their  armor  is  wild  and  bright, 

And  an  awesome  eeriness  holdeth  me. 
I  feel  that  I  stand  on  the  border-land, 

The  border-land  of  mystery. 
For  the  wheel  at  the  cistern  is  broken  now, 

And  the  fountains  of  youth  no  longer  flow, 

The  windows  are  darkened  with  threatening  woe, 
And  light  are  the  burdens  at  which  I  bow, 

For  the  sound  of  the  grinding  is  low. 

On  the  border-land,  for  the  east  winds  moan, 
And  the  moon  goes  down  o'er  forests  brown, 
And  save  the  distant  glimmering  town, 

Forest,  still  forest,  dark,  unknown, 

31 


458  TIJE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Where  cheerful  home-light  never  shone, 

To  far  Katahdin,  cold  and  lone. 
Beneath  the  mystic  Northern  Light, 

And  on,  still  on,  to  the  frozen  zone, 
And  the  grim  abodes  of  frigid  night 

On  the  shores  of  the  unmapped  sea, — 

Thus  lies  the  beyond  uiitraced  for  me, 
For  faith  is  dead,  and  hope  is  fled, 
And  the  Temple  of  Science  is  reared  instead. 
And  I  join  in  the  quest  of  the  soul's  behest, 

As  its  votaries  cry,  Lo  here!  lo  there! 
But  I  sometimes  fear  that  our  idols  are  clay, 

And  often  I  feel  that  our  worship  is  cold, 

And  fain  would  I  weep  with  Mary  of  old, 
That  they  have  taken  our  Lord  away 

And  laid  Him  I  know  not  where. 

My  children  lie  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

Yet  o'er  them  I  sigh,  I  know  not  why, 
For  even  my  love  in  which  they  trust 
Is  a  far  prophetic,,  beneficent  mn^t, — 

And  not  of  their  merit,  and  not  of  my  will, 
Strange  power  to  be  born  of  unconscious  dust, 

And  motion  more  inanimate  still ! 
And  even  I  dare  to  murmur  a  prayer 

Sent  aimless  into  the  vast  unknown, 
If,  perchance,  it  may  find  a  resting-place  the  iv 
Or  bring  some  token  of  fostering  care, 

Less  impotent  than  my  own; 
For  my  strength  is  little  and  much  is  due, 
The  measure  is  great  and  the  grains  are  few.. 

And  [  tread  in  the  wine-press  alone. 

For  this  is  a  barren  life  indeed, 

If  collision  of  atoms  at  different  speed 

Is  all  the  creed  we  ever  shall  need; 

And  the  boon  of  thought  is  too  dearly  bought, 

If  it  eats  its  own  heart  and  comes  to  nought, 

And  the  "force  of  nature"  is  incomplete, 

If  it  builds  a  hope  it  never  can  meet, 

As  our  own  half-truths  declare; 
And  I  strive  with  pain  and  weary  brain 
To  trace  the  threadless  labyrinth  out, 
For  the  doubtful  hope  and  the  hopeful  doubt 
Are  harder  than  utter  despair  to  bear, 
And  the  wisdom  of  earth  is  a  snare. 


HENR Y  RAND  ED WA RD 8.  45!) 


And  if  a  man  die  shall  he  live  again  ? 

Or  ever  the  evil  day  shall  come 
When  the  clouds  return  not  after  the  rain, 

Nor  man  from  his  long,  long  home  ? 

Why  linger  longer  on  weary  theme 

Of  weary  measures  through  which  we  grope  '? 
At  last  and  at  least  a  flickering  gleam 

Is  promised,  perhaps,  that  may  lead  to  hope, 
As  the  magnet  tells  of  the  hidden  mine, 

As  the  needle-lines  cluster  around  the  pole, 
To  one  great  ultimate  incline, 
The  varied  truths  that  we  discern; 
And  we  have  only  more  to  learn 

To  see  that  this  includes  the  whole. 
And  the  force  behind  is  the  rest  before, 

And  the  base  below  is  the  goal  above, 
And  this  part,  that  is  the  whole  and  more, 
That  flexes  every  divining-rod, 

Is  the  primal  vibration  we  know  as  love, 
And  may  be — near  to  the  Christian's  God, 

For  "God  is  love!" 
Be  still,  my  soul,  nor  seek  to  know 

What  thy  dim  sight,  not  darkness,  hides; 
Thy  powers  may  grow  as  we  farther  go, 

For  a  truth  that  is  true  to  itself  abides, 
Though  long  and  erring  thy  way  may  be, 
Be  sure  thy  Father  watcheth  thee. 


THE  SILENT  SYMPHONY. 

Where  is  the  song  that  never  was  sung? 

What  is  the  story  that  never  was  told  ? 
The  changes  have  long  ago  all  been  rung, 

And  the  new  of  the  newest  was  old  of  old. 
Over  and  over  we  carol  our  lays, 
With  few  to  listen  and  fewer  to  praise; 
For  we  sing  not  now  as  in  olden  days, 

And  the  fervor  of  lips  grows  cold. 

Yet  there  is  a  song  that  the  poet  hears 

That  never  was  sung  under  heaven's  blue  dome, 

And  it  moves  to  the  stately  march  of  the  years 
With  the  steadfast  throb  of  the  metronome. 

And  sound  for  ears  mortal  the  Song  hath  none, 

But  silently  speaks  to  the  soul  alone 

In  the  meaning  rhythm  of  the  isochrone, 
The  mother-tongue  of  its  home. 


4fiO  THE  POET 8  OF  MA INE. 


But  mark  how  it  blendeth  the  airs  of  earth, 
That  song  of  songs  that  forever  is  new : 

The  paean  of  joy,  at  a  gladsome  birth, 
With  the  wail  of  death,  of  the  Ululu. 

For  the  gladness  of  earth  is  but  sorrow  begun, 

And  sorrowing  endeth  as  joy  hath  done. 

But  there,  the  wail  and  the  p»an  are  one, 
The  Beautiful  and  the  True. 


JUinznwre  Ij^ovett. 


Nancy  Dinsmore  Bixby  was  born  in  Norridgewock,  Me.,  March  24,  1829,  receiving  there 
a  good  common-school  and  academical  education,  inheriting  a  poetical  temperament, 
enhanced  by  the  fine  scenic  surroundings  of  the  "old  home"  and  the  literary  impulse 
of  Maine  air.  In  1858  she  went  to  reside  with  her  prosperous  brothers  in  California, 
where,  in  1860.  she  was  married  to  William  E.  Lovett,  a  San  Francisco  lawyer,  who  died 
a  few  years  ago,  leaving  her  to  care  for  and  complete  the  education  of  their  five  children. 
Her  life  has  been  domestic  rather  than  literary,  still,  this  lady  has  been  a  welcome  writer 
to  the  columns  of  papers  on  the  Pacific  coast,  as  well  as  to  those  of  her  native  State. 


MY  OLD  HOME. 
As  by  my  fire  I  sit  to-night, 

Watching  the  embers  glow, 
How  busy  memory  brings  to  sight 

The  scenes  of  long  ago. 

For  looking  back  I  seem  to  see 

Myself  again  a  child, 
When,  like  a  fairy-land  to  me, 

The  earth  as  Eden  smiled. 

Once  more  among  familiar  things 

In  fancy  do  I  roam, 
As  to  my  sight  fond  memory  brings 

Again  my  childhood  home — 

The  dear  old  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  barn,  the  brook,  the  spring, 

The  oil-nut-trees  where  every  morn 
I  heard  the  robins  sing; 

The  orchard-hill  with  breezes  sweet, 
That  made  my  face  so  brown, 

When  from  its  top,  with  romping  feet, 
I  chased  the  apples  down; 

The  river  where  the  grape-vines  grew 

Into  a  perfect  bowrer, 
And  cherry-trees  that  shadow's  threw 

Across  the  wild  sunflower; 


NANCY  B.  D.  LOVETT.—AMO8  BIXBY.  461 

The  sylvan  path  that  led  the  way 

Where  spring-flowers  used  to  grow, 
And  where  I  stole  at  hush  of  day 

To  watch  the  sunset's  glow; 

The  path  that  to  the  hill-top  led, 

From  whence  I  looked  away, 
Where,  like  a  painted  picture  spread, 

The  lovely  landscape  lay. 

And  when  beneath  the  summer  sky 

The  old  pine  woods  were  seen, 
No  place  unto  my  loving  eye 

So  fair  had  ever  been. 

For  deep  within  each  shady  place 

The  rarest  mosses  grew, 
And  there  the  wood-flower's  lovely  face 

Smiled  all  the  summer  through. 

Each  spot  was  like  a  precious  gem, 

And  dearly  prized  by  me, 
And  though  so  distant  far  from  the  in, 

Yet  all  to-night  I  see; 

And  so  I  sit  and  muse  and  dream 

Within  my  firelight  warm, 
Until  once  more  a  child  I  seem 

Upon  my  father's  farm. 


s  jjixbn. 


Amos  Bixby  is  the  son  of  Amasa  Bixby  and  Fanny  Western  Bixby,  and  the  grandson  of 
Dea.  Solomon  Bixby  and  Benjamin  Weston,  who  were  of  the  earliest  settlers  of  Somer 
set  County,  Me.  The  home  of  the  Bixbys  and  Westons  was  by  the  beautiful  Kennebec. 
The  subject  of  this  notice  was  prepared  for  college  at  the  Bloomfleld  Academy,  under 
the  tutorship  of  the  Hon.  Stephen  Coburn,  and  was  for  two  years  a  student  at  Water- 
yille  College,  and  afterwards  studied  law  with  Hon.  Joseph  Baker,  at  Augusta.  While 
in  the  practice  of  law  at  Searsport,  in  the  same  State,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Augusta 
Himtington  Carlisle,  and  to  them  were  born  four  children.  The  family  left  Searsport  in 
1854,  as  members  of  a  colony,  composed  mostly  of  New  England  people,  to  settle  upon  an 
Iowa  prairie,  the  principal  town  of  which  was  called  Grinnell,  in  honor  of  the  founder, 
the  Hon.  J.  B.  Grinnell.  Moving  westward  again,  Mr.  Bixby  engaged  in  mining  in  Gil- 
pin  and  Boulder  Counties,  Col., — settling- finally  in  the  town  of  Boulder,  1872,  where  soon 
after  he  established  a  newspaper,  a.;:d  became  well  known  among  the  earlier  journalists 
of  the  State.  He  afterwards  held  some  offices  of  trUst.  Early  in  the  present  year,  1888, 
the  family  again  took  their  way  westward,  making  a  home  at  Long  Beach,  a  pleasant  sea 
side  resort,  Los  Angeles  County,  Cal. 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE   WESTON   CELEBRATION    AT    MADISON,  MAINE. 

Our  fathers  walked  in  perfect  trust: 
They  held  the  promise  blest, 


THE  POETS  OF  MA  IKE. 

Through  lives  of  toil  and  frames  of  dust, 
To  their  eternal  rest. 

T  heir  perfect  trust,  it  left  them  here 

No  moment  for  despair; 
No  time  to  lose,  no  time  to  fear, 

Nor  doubt  their  Father's  care. 

Their  perfect  trust,  it  gave  them  breath 

Of  the  divinest  air! 
Their  perfect  trust,  it  gave  them  faith 

Of  heaven  being  everywhere! 

Now  honor,  learning,  truth  and  art, — 

Uplifting  love  of  right, 
And  sweeter  graces  of  the  heart, 

Enduring  in  God's  sight, — 

Such  heritage  we  celebrate: — 

Earth  doth  not  better  give : — 
Spirit  to  keep  the  high  bequest 

Must  in  our  children  live. 

And  their  descendants,  from  afar, 

Will  send  the  message  down 
That  the  fathers'  blessings  are 

The  children's  children's  crown. 

Our  fathers'  God!  in  Thee  we'll  trust: 
We  '11  trust  the  promise  blest, 

By  lives  of  faith,  through  frames  of  dust, 
To  our  eternal  rest. 


z  Ij/hilcott. 


James  Clemens  Chilcott  was  horn  on  Ironbound  Island,  Frenchman's  Bay,  within  the 
limits  of  the  town  of  Uouldsboro',  April  2,  1832,  and  is  now  in  his  fifty-  sixth  year.  When 
he  was  one  year  old,  his  parents  mov'ed  to  Sullivan,  Me.,  where  he  resided  until  1872.  He 
Vf.as  reared  on  a  farm,  and,  with  the  exception  of  two  terms  at  a  private  High  School  in 
Sullivan,  and  one  winter  at  Bluehill  Academy,  he  was  educated  in  the  district  schools  of 
Sullivan.  In  early  life  he  went  to  sea  for  a  short  time,  and  three  voyages  to  Bank  Que- 
reau,  in  the  fisheries.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  years  he  became  a  teacher  in  the  district 
schools,  continuing  in  that  calling  for  twenty  years,  and  teaching  nearly  sixty  terms. 
Enlisting  in  18(51,  he  served  as  a  sergeant  about  two  years  in  the  13th  Maine  Regiment,  of 
which  Neal  Dow  was  colonel.  In  1872  Mr.  Chilcott  was  appointed  Special  Deputy  Collec 
tor  of  Customs  at  the  port  of  Ellsworth,  an  office  which  he  held  for  more  than  thirteen 
years.  Shortly  after  his  appointment,  he  removed  to  Ellsworth,  where  he  has  since 
resided.  He  has  served  in  many  municipal  capacities,  including  fifteen  years  on  the 
school-board  in  Sullivan  and  Ellsworth,  several  terms  as  Chairman  of  the  Board  of 
Selectmen  and  Assessors  of  Sullivan,  and  also  as  an  Alderman  in  the  City  of  Ellsworth. 
For  several  years  he  .was  a  contributor  to  a  number  of  papers,  including  the  Portland 
Transcript,  Lewiston  Journal,  MacMas  Union,  Ellsworth  American,  Monnt  Desert 
Herald  and  Phrenological  Journal.  Since  August,  1885,  he  has  been  editor  and  manager 
of  the  Ellsworth  American.  For  many  years  he  has  been  an  earnest  temperance  worker. 


JAMES  CLEMENS  CHlLCOT'l.  463 

BERTIE. 

My  bark,  launched  on  life's  troubled  sea, 

Stood  boldly  out  from  land ; 
Xo  steadfast  needle  guided  me 

To  shun  the  rock  and  sand. 

Temptations  swerved  me  from  my  course, 

The  breakers  round  me  lay, 
And  though  the  gale  raged  loud  and  hoarse, 

I  saw  no  sheltering  bay. 

Ambition  lured  me,  hope  beguiled 

With  honied  blandishment, 
When  'board  my  bark  there  came  a  child 

Of  trustful,  calm  content, 

As  pure  as  lone  Siberia's  snow, 

As  glad  as  morning  bird, 
As  welcome  as  the  solar  glow 
By  arctic  night  deferred. 

He  came  to  pilot  and  to  bless, 

To  win  my  purest  love, 
To  strew  my  path  with  happiness 

And  lift  my  thoughts  above. 

In  heart  all  pure,  from  stains  all  free, 

He  came,  my  precious  boy, 
Exemplar,  teacher,  friend  to  be, 

A  source  of  holy  joy. 

Ten  years  rolled  on,  the  last  one  fled — 

Sad  day  to  mine  and  me — 
The  unreal  boy  lay  cold  and  dead, 

The  real  soared  lithe  and  free. 

Dead!     X ay,  not  dead!     But  just  begun 

To  live  with  shackles  rent; 
And  more  than  erst  is  he  my  son, 

Whose  presence  brings  content. 


A  REFORM  CLUB  HYMX. 

(rod  of  the  right,  uphold  our  cause, 
And  make  its  rule  thy  righteous  laws: 
Mnke  Thou  its  aiders  firm  and  true, 
With  hearts  to  dare  and  wills  to  do. 
Our  work  demands  no  feigned  applause ; 
We  celebrate  a  noble  cause, 


464  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  birth  of  valor  in  the  soul 

Emancipate  from  rum's  control; 

A  declaration,  firm  and  strong, 

Of  independence  from  the  wrong; 

A  manly  turning  to  the  right, 

With  hearts  and  homes  and  lives  made  bright. 

When  men,  forsaking  error's  ways, 

Have  pledged  to  right  their  future  days, 

Their  acts  are  nobler,  more  sublime, 

Than  martial  deeds  of  every  time. 

A  conquering  hero's  dread  command 

May  blight  and  blast  a  happy  land ; 

But  he  who  turneth  back  from  sin 

May  bless  the  world  he  liveth  in. 

Lend  Thou,  O  God!  Thy  spirit's  might, 

To  make  our  cause  a  league  with  right, 

A  league  with  truth,  a  league  with  Thee, 

A  league  with  love  and  liberty, 

Whose  work  on  earth  shall  ne'er  be  done, 

Till  all  from  sin  and  shame  are  won. 


<9<n!B  J§'  UttrMt  jKonrtittotfo. 


Mrs.  Mary  E.  Bryant  Tonrtillotte  was  born  in  Corinth,  Me.,  June  13,  1832.  Her  first 
poem  appeared  in  tie  Port/and  Transcript  in  1851.  The  title  was  "  Angel  Visits."  Aft 
erwards  she  had  poems  in  the  Temperance  Watchman,  Morning  Star  and  Portland 
Tranftcri.pt.  She  married  Franklin  Tourtillotte  in  the  year  1854,' and  is  still  living  in 
Maxfield.  She  has  written  very  little  since  her  marriage,  as  her  family,  four  girls  and 
two  boys,  has  occupied  her  attention.  The  youngest  daughter  is  the  only  one  who  pos- 
rtfissf*  any  poetical  talent. 

THE  WELCOME. 

Sweet  indeed  will  be  the  greeting  * 

Of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 
When,  all  tempest-tost  and  weary, 

We  have  gained  that  heavenly  shore: 
Sweet  will  be  their  angel  welcome 

To  that  world  of  endless  day; 
But  another  Friend  awaits  us, 

Dearer,  truer  far  than  they. 

He  who  left  his  home  in  glory, 

Fallen  man  from  sin  to  save; 
He  who  rent  death's  bands  asunder, 

And  in  triumph  left  the  grave; — 


HENE  Y  LA  URENS  TA LB O  T.  465 


He  the  golden  gates  will  open, 

He  will  bid  us  enter  there, 
Free  from  sin,  and  pain,  and  sorrow, 

All  the  joys  of  heaven  to  share. 

Though  our  eyes  have  never  rested 

On  that  form  divjnely  fair; — 
Though  our  ears  have  ne'er  been  gladdened 

By  that  voice  of  music  rare; — 
He  unseen  has  walked  beside  us, 

All  along  life's  winding  way; 
He  has  soothed  the  keenest  sorrow, 

He  has  cheered  the  saddest  day. 

When  our  work  for  Him  is  finished, 

At  His  feet  the  cross  lay  down, 
He  will  clothe  us  in  white  raiment, 

On  each  forehead  place  the  crown. 
All  our  toils  and  trials  ended, 

Conflict  past  and  victory  won, 
He  will  be  the  first  to  greet  us, — 

He  will  speak  the  glad  "Well  done." 


Rev.  Henry  L.  Talbot  was  born  in"  East  Machias,  about  1832.  He  received  his  early 
education  at  Washington  Academy  in  his  native  town.  He  studied  three  years  at  Wil- 
brahain,  Mass.,  then  at  Williston  Seminary,  East  Hampton,  N.  H.,  graduating  from  Ando- 
ver  Theological  Seminary  in  the  class  of  1870,  and  was  called  to  settle  as  pastor  of  the 
Congregational  Church,  in  Durham,  N.  H.,  November,  1872,  which  charge  he  resigned 
about  1882.  Since  then  he  has  continued  to  live  in  that  town,  giving  his  time  principally 
to.  teaching  and  literary  labor. 


WINTER  SCENE. 

I  walked,  to-day,  in  a  silver  grove, 
Bedecked  with  shining  crystals  rare; 

The  waving  branches  tossed  above 
Their  frosty  diamonds  in  the  air. 

I  gazed  enraptured  on  the  scene, 

And  thought  of  the  world  that  needs  no  sun, 
All  radiant  in  the  dazzling  sheen 

Of  the  perfect  day  so  long  begun. 

And  I  thought,  if  God  on  the  streets  of  earth 
Lavished  profusely  light  and  gem, 

What  would  it  be,  at  the  heavenly  birth, 
In  the  streets  of  the  New  Jerusalem! 


46(>  THE  POKTb  OF  MA  INK. 


EGBERT,  MY  DEPARTED  BOY. 

He  sleeps  no  more  upon  my  breast. 
The  music  of  whose  gentle  feet 
My  listening  ear  was  wont  to  greet, 

Whose  golden  curls  I  oft  caressed. 

His  bed  is  where  pale  violets  sleep, 
The  narrow  mound  I  may  not  see, 
But  pitying  voices  say  to  me, 

"'Tis  where  the  sad-eyed  violets  weep." 

Our  own  stout  hearts  are  filled  with  dread, 
We  shrink  with  terror  and  dismay 
To  walk  the  dark,  mysterious  way 

That  leads  us  to  the  silent  dead. 

How  can  he  tread  the  darksome  way  — 
Who  ever  in  the  path  of  life 
Has  shielded  been  from  every  strife  — 

Up  to  the  confines  of  the  day! 

And  should  he  reach  that  better  land. 

Will  he  not  feel  himself  alone, 

As  if  an  uninvited  one, 
And  on  its  threshold  trembling  stand  ? 

O  who  will  know  the  child  is  there, 
In  that  vast  world  of  dazzling  light  ? 
Amid  the  hosts  of  seraphs  bright, 

Who'll  see  that  little  form  so  fair? 

Ah,  some  one  from  the  angel  band 
Who  watched  our  angel  here  on  earth, 
And  claimed  him  with  a  kindred  birth, 

Will  greet  him  in  that  better  land,  — 

Lead  him,  through  ranks  of  legions  bright, 
To  One  who  trod  life's  pathway  dim, 
And  called  earth's  children  unto  Him, 
seated  on  a  throne  of  white! 


And  he  will  take  my  little  boy 
And  fold  him  to  His  gentle  breast, 
Till,  sinking  in  that  blissful  rest. 

His  soul  shall  taste  eternal  joy! 


JA ME*  A  L HER  T  LIB  H  Y.  467 


Rev.  James  A.  Libby,  a  Methodist  clergyman,  was  born  in  Poland,  Me  ,  July  3,  1832, 
and  had  a  common-school  and  academical  education,  lie  has  spent  some  six  years  out  of 
his  native  State,  and  preached  and  taught  a  while  in  South  Carolina,  among  the  Freed- 
men;  Mr.  Libhy  has  been  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  since  he  was  twenty-six  years  old,  has 
written  considerably  in  verse,  and  contemplates  publishing  a  volume. 


THE  OLD  DOOR-SILL. 

Always  under  foot  remaining, 
Yet  with  not  a  word  complaining, 

What  a  story  it  might  toll — 
What  through  all  its  years  unfolding 
Changeful  scenes,  ever  beholding, 

Mirthful  moods,  and  sorrow's  spell ! 

How  gay  hearts  have  bounded  o'er  it. 
And  light  feet  have  tripped  before  it, 

When  as  yet  the  home  was  new ! 
Then  dull  care  found  not  the  dwelling, 
And  no  burden  worth  the  telling 

Lay  upon  the  happy  two. 

Didst  tli ou  hear  the  merry  laughter 
Fill  the  house  from  floor  to  rafter, 

When,  on  creeping  hands  and  knees, 
Little  rogue  edged  closely  to  thee, 
And  with  wonder  first  did  view  thee 

With  so  much  outside  to  please  ? 

But  with  baby  joy  soon  over, 

Thou  didst  see  the  watching  mother 

Snatch  the  pet  from  danger's  brink, 
Smothering  half  his  screams  with  kisses, 
And  for  outdoor  joy  he  misses 

Quickly  of  some  toy  doth  think. 

Not  all  pleasure  was  thy  portion, 
For  how  many  had  the  notion, 

With  their  rough  and  snowy  feet, 
To  come  down  on  thee  with  power. 
And  through  years  how  many  an  hour 

Thy  poor  form  was  sorely  beat ! 

Yes,  arid  hard  thy  fare  for  shelter. 

Storm,  or  mild,  or  furious  pelter. 

Found  thee  always  in  the  way : 


468  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  what  must  have  failed  to  cheer  thee, 
Was  to  have  a  door  so  near  thee, 
And  be  forced  without  to  stay. 

• 

Thou  art  worn  with  time  and  friction. 
Hast  thou  stories  of  affliction  ? 

Surely  long  has  been  thy  day. 
"Yes;  the  feet  that  traveled  o'er  me 
Many  a  year,  uneven  wore  me; 

But  at  length  they  passed  away. 

"Tears  fell  on  me  as  we  parted 
From  the  mourner,  heavy-hearted, 

Close  behind  the  casket  borne; 
One  by  one  the  inmates  scattered, 
Till  the  house  grew  old  and  shattered, 

Then  they  left  it  like  a  tomb. 

"Ruin  played  his  pranks  above  me, 
And  his  mighty  hand  did  shove  me 

From  my  place,  and  here  I  fell, 
Desolate,  till  you  came  to  me, 
And  with  pity  seemed  to  view  me, 

Helping  me  my  story  tell." 


A  BLISSFUL  VISIOX. 

I  sat  me  down  to  muse  one  weary  day, 
And  soon  in  thought  was  wandering  far  away, 
Before  me  rose  a  shining,  narrow  gate; 
It  swung,  and  lo!  a  saintly  form  did  wait 
Within  for  me.     Amazed  I  saw  him  stand 
And  stretch  his  own  to  grasp  my  mortal  hand. 
"  Come  unto  me,"  he  said,  "  earth- weary  child, 
And  I  will  teach  thee;"  and  so  sweetly  smiled 
That  all  my  fears  were  fled,  and  by  his  side 
I  held  his  hand — my  more  than  mortal  guide, — 
And  he  was  speaking  as  he  led  me  forth : 
And  first  he  told  me,  "This  is  God's  new  earth;" 
And  I  had  guessed  it,  though  my  searching  eyes 
Had  swept  but  once  the  landscape  and  the  skies. 
For  at  my  feet  the  soil  seemed  new  and  clean, 
And  all  the  grass  grew  thickly  fresh  and  green, 
Which  all  among  were  flowers  of  every  hue, 
And  bursting  buds  just  pushing  into  view. 
And  trees,  and  vines,  and  all  I  saw  below 


JAMES  ALBERT  LIBBY. 

* 

Seemed  beautiful  as  God  could  make  them  grow. 

And  I  was  thinking  of  a  sacred  verse 

When  he  who  led  me,  spake  it:  "  No  more  curae—' 

And  I  was  listening  as  we  passed  along 

To  catch  the  floating  snatches  of  a  song, 

Till  coming  nearer,  thus  I  caught  the  strain, 

"Worthy  the  Lamb  for  us  that  once  was  slain." 

I  gazed  entranced,  for  mighty  hosts  were  singing, 

And  golden  harps  with  richest  tones  were  ringing, 

As  now  the  glad  refrain  came  pouring  forth: 

"  For  iw,  and  we  shall  reign  upon  the  earth! " 

What  beams  of  glory  danced  on  every  brow, 

And  every  cheek  wore  health  and  beauty  now. 

"And  is  disease  a  stranger  here?"  I  asked,  full  fain; 

My  guide  responding,  answered,  "  No  more  pain." 

He  brought  mo  and  we  wandered  long  beside 

A  flowing  river,  deep,  and  clear,  and  wide, 

Till  high  on  either  bank,  a  branching  wood, 

Kissing  the  sky  in  awful  grandeur,  stood, 

With  monthly  fruitage  full.     "  Life's  trees,"  he  saith, 

And  then  kept  on  repeating,  "  No  more  death." 

My  eyes  were  chained  intent  till  when  my  guide 

Bade  me  look  farther  back,  on  either  side, 

And  lo !  a  city — but  with  mortal  tongue, 

I  stop  and  leave  its  glories  all  unsung. 

And  now  such  radiant  light  around  was  shining 

Methought  ourselves  beyond  the  day's  declining; 

For  wave  on  wave  the  city  flashed  afar 

Its  dazzling  splendor  like  a  burning  star. 

And  he  who  led  me  read  my  thoughts  aright, 

And  spake  them  shortly,  saying,  "  No  more  night.'1 

What!  "No  more  curse,  nor  pain,  nor  death,  nor  night  ?" 

Bright  vision  of  a  world,  surpassing  bright! 

"And  can  it  be  that  things  will  always  stay 

As  beautiful,  and  glorious,  as  they  seem  to-day?" 

I  said,  as  coming  to  the  shining  gate, 

My  guide  still  holding  me,  content  to  wait. 

"Always,"  he  sa'id,  "the  nature  of  this  clime 

Is  one  bright,  balmy,  constant  summer-time." 

FAST  ASLEEP. 

Beautiful  little  creature- 
Noiseless  innocent  sleep, 

Holding  each  limb  and  feature 
Fast  in  the  cradle  deep; 


470  THE  POET  IS  OF  MAINE. 

Forehead  smooth  as  the  marble, 

Clustered  with  golden  curls  — 
Eyes  gently  shutting  out  teardrops, 

Glistening  very  like  pearls; 
Cheeks  aglow  and  bedimpled, 

Lips  sweetly  parted,  rose-red, 
Pressed  out  of  shape  just  a  little, 

By  the  list  doubled  under  the  head; 
Dimpled  again  at  the  elbows — 

One  hand  thrown  over  the  breast — 
Thus  lay  the  dear  little  sleeper 

When  I  beheld  him  at  rest. 


7/w. 


This  charming  writer  was  bom  in  Strong,  Franklin  County,  Oct.  9,  1832.  She  resided 
there  during  her  childhood,  and,  amid  its  romantic  scenery  and  the  quiet  of  its  peaceful 
village  life,  imbibed  deeply  at  the  fount  of  inspiration,  till  her  admiring  soul  learned  to 
express  itself  in  sweet  melody.  Her  early  poems  appeared  over  the  signature  of  "  Flor 
ence  Percy,"  and  many  of  them  were  first  published  in  the  Portland  Transcript,  She 
came  to  Portland  in  1855.  and  a  volume  of  her  fugitive  poems  appeared  in  that  city  just 
before  her  marriage  to  Mr  Akers,  the  sculptor,  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume, 
whom  she  accompanied  to  Jtaly,  and  buried  there.  For  several  years  she  was  on  the 
editorial  staff  of  the  Porljavm  ddffrtiser.  She  has  written  for  most  of  the  leading 
magazines,  and  several  editions  of  her  collected  poems  have  been  published.  A  critic 
remarks,  "Much  of  her  poetry  is  really  exquisite."  Mrs.  Akers  now  resides  at  Ridge- 
wood,  N.  J. 


VINE-LIFE. 

In  the  dead  barrenness  of  winter  time 
I  marked  this  woodbine  latticing  the  wall, 

And  said,  "  How  pleasantly  in  summer's  prime 
This  vine  shall  beautify  and  curtain  all!'1 

Ere  yet  in  leafless  elms  the  robins  sung, — 
Nature  touched  tenderly  the  net-work  screen. 

And  with  her  silent  fingers  slowly  strung 
The  limber  stems  with  gems  of  living  green. 

Yet  some  remained  unbudded.     Day  by  day 
I  watched, — but  not  late  April's  gracious  air, 

Nor  yet  the  warmer  smiles  of  perfect  May, 
Brought  promise  to  the  tendrils  brown  and  bare. 

Whereat  1  grieved.     "The  winter  was  unkind," 
I  said,  "to  shatter  thus  my  summer  dream; 

How  shall  these  dry  limbs  scatter  shade,  or  blind 
My  window  from  the  sultry  August  beam  ?" 


ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN.  471 


Yet  see  how  June  my  faithless  murmuring  mocks ! 

Lo,  those  new  vigorous  shoots,  all  fresh  with  leaves, 
Clasp  with  their  clinging  hands  these  dry,  dead  stalks, 

And  clamber  up,  rejoicing,  to  the  eaves,— 

Till  the  brown  skeleton  is  all  aleaf, 

Fluttering,  and  rain-fresh  through  its  tendriled  length 
And  that,  which  once  was  death  and  bitter  grief, 

Becomes  at  once  its  glory  and  its  strength. 

Fettered  and  cramped  by  no  depending  cares, 
Up  their  strange  trellis  the  long  garlands  go, 

As  went  the  angels  up  the  shining  stairs 
Of  Jacob's  vision  in  the  long  ago. 

When  shall  we  learn  to  read  this  life  aright  ? 

When  to  our  souls  will  the  sweet  grace  be  given 
To  make  our  disappointment  and  our  blight 

But  ladder-rounds  to  lift  us  nearer  heaven  ? 

WOUXDJSD.* 

June's  loving  presence  fills  these  green-arched  glooms; 

From  broad-leaved  branches,  drooping  cool  and  low, 
Drop  down  the  purple-veined  catalpa-blooms, 

Chasing  each  other  lighly  to  and  fro 
As  dainty  as  new  snow. 

The  great  ripe  roses  nodding  by  the  way, 

Drunken  and  drowsy  with  their  own  perfume, 

Heed  not  that  bee  and  butterfly  all  day 
Make  in  their  very  hearts  a  banquet-room 
And  rob  their  royal  bloom. 

The  chestnut  lights  her  mimic  chandeliers, 

The  tulip-tree  uplifts  her  goblets  high, 
The  pine  and  fir  shed  balmy  incense-tears, 

And  the  magnolia's  thick  white  petals  lie 
Expiring  fragrantly. 

The  silver  poplar's  pearl  and  emerald  sheen 
Glimmers  incessant,  shadowing  the  eaves: 

The  willow's  wide,  fair  fountain-fall  of  green 
Whispers  like  rain;  a  pulse  of  gladness  heaves 
The  world  of  waving  leaves. 


*  Ihis  poem  which  has  not,  we  believe,  been  included  in  any  of  "Florence  Percy's" 
published  works  alluded  to  our  gallant  ex-Governor,  GEN.  SELDEX  CONKOB,  who  was 
wounded  in  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness,  and  lay  in  hospital  many  weary  months 


472  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


In  yonder  room  that  fronts  the  dusty  street, 
Hushed  and  white-bedded,  curtained  cool  and  dim, 

There  lies  as  brave  a  heart  as  ever  beat, 
Bound  down  and  tortured  by  a  shattered  limb  — 
Ah!  what  is  June  to  him? 

To  him,  poor  homesick  sufferer,  how  fail- 
Would  be  this  wreath  of  bloom,  this  sunny  sky, 

These  gushing  sparrow-songs,  this  gracious  air ! 
Yet  he,  with  stronger  right  to  all  than  I, 
Pines  in  captivity. 

With  breath  of  cannon  hot  upon  his  brow, 
In  glorious  strife  it  had  been  sweet  to  die; 

But  no  ennobling  purpose  fires  him  now, 
His  soul  is  nerved  by  no  proud  battle-cry 
To  this  long  agony. 

What  was  the  boldest  charge,  the  bloodiest  fight, 

The  wildest  rally  over  heaps  of  slain, 
To  this  unequal  contest  day  and  night 

With  the  fierce  legions  of  disease  and  pain,    - 
Repulsed  so  oft  in  vain  ? 

Heroic  was  the  bravery  that  inspired 

His  heart  to  daring  deeds;  but  nobler  still 

This  bravery  of  strong  patience,  which,  untired, 

Waits  calmly,  while  the  tedious  months  fulfil 

Their  work  of  good  or  ill. 

Sacred  we  hold  their  names,  who  in  the  strife 

Of  righteous  war— our  nation's  noblest  sons- 
Have  done  their  work  and  given  up  their  life 
Amid  the  smoke  and  thunder  of  the  guns, 
Beloved  and  honored  ones ! 

And  thou,  brave  heart,  although  no  trumpet-breath 
Proclaims  thee  martyr,  yet  thy  name  shall  be 

Hallowed  as  these,  for  even  more  than  death, 
O  hero,  hast  thou  suffered  patiently 
For  right  and  liberty! 


WHITE  HEAD. 

From  the  pleasant  paths  I  used  to  tread 

Full  many  a  mile  away, 
I  dream  of  the  rocks  of  old  White  Head, 

And  the  billows  of  Casco  Bay. 
I  sit  once  more  on  the  island  beach, 

Where  the  waves  dash  glad  and  high, 


ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN.  473 


And  listen  again  their  mystic  speech, 

As  the  murmurous  ranks  go  by; 
While,  lying  here  on  my  tiresome  bed, 

I  cheat  the  dreary  day 
By  fondly  picturing  old  White  Head, 

And  the  waters  of  Casco  Bay. 

Beyond  it  the  laden  ships  go  out, 

Out  into  the  open  sea, 
To  battle  with  danger,  and  storm,  and  doubt, 

And  the  ocean's  treachery; 
And  the  homeward  vessels  which  long  have  sped 

Through  the  tempest,  and  spray,  and  foam, 
Catch  first  a  glimmer  of  old  White  Head, 

And  are  sure  they  are  almost  home ; 
And  many  a  homesick  tear  is  shed 

By  wanderers  miles  away, 
As  memory  whispers  of  old  White  Head, 

And  the  islands  of  Casco  Bay. 

Ah,  rarest  mosses  that  ever  were  seen 

Grow  brightly  on  old  White  Head; 
Orange,  and  russet,  and  emerald-green 

Wide  o'er  the  rocks  are  spread; 
And  when  the  sweet  June  sunlight  shines, 

The  gossiping  zephyr  tells 
Where  ruby  and  golden  columbines 

Are  swinging  their  myriad  bells. 
Ah,  thus,  as  I  lie  on  my  tiresome  bed, 

I  cheat  the  dreary  day 
By  summer  pictures  of  old  White  Hesd, 

And  the  billows  of  Casco  Bay. 

Did  I  forget  ?    It  is  winter  now 

On  the  islands  and  old  White  Head. 
The  snow  lies  deep  on  the  cliff's  high  brow, 

And  the  lichens  and  blooms  are  dead; 
Under  the  ice,  with  sob  and  sigh, 

The  prisoned  billows  heave, 
And  the  clouds  hang  dark,  and  the  sea-birds  cry 

And  the  winds  complain  and  grieve,— 
Yet,  lying  here  on  my  tiresome  bed, 

It  cheers  me  to  think  alway 
That  the  summer  is  shining  on  old  White  Mead, 

And  the  islands  of  Casco  Bay! 

32 


474  THE  POETS*  OF  MAINE. 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  -rock  me  to  sleep 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears,— 

Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain.— 

Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again! 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away; 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  between: 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown. 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone; 
N"o  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours: 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep;— 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,— rock  me  to  sleep! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  . 


CHARLES  CARROLL  LORING. 


475 


Mother,  clear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song : 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  ray  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
N  ever  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,— rock  me  to  sleep! 


The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  the  son  of  Lucius  Loring,  who  came  to  Buckneld,  Me., 
in  1805,  when  a  mere  lad.  He  spent  all  the  years  of  his  active  life  as  a  prominent  trader. 
At  this  writing  he  still  survives,  beloved  and  respected  by  all,  at  the  age  of  90  years, 
being  the  oldest  citizen  of  Buckneld.  Charles  Carroll  was  born  in  Bucktield,  Nov.  23, 
1832.  and  was  an  only  son.  He  attended  the  schools  of  Buckneld  in  his  boyhood,  and 
studied  several  years  under  private  instructors,  devoting  considerable  attention  to  read 
ing  and  the  study  of  literature.  He  spent  several  years  in  his  father's  store,  devoting 
much  time  to  reading  and  writing;  and  subsequently  engaged  in  the  hardware  trade.  But 
the  duties  of  his  business  life  were  always  somewhat  irksome  to  him,  as  his  taste  led  his 
mind  far  away  from  the  associations  of  trade.  I  Hiring  these  years  he  wrote  many  poems 
and  essays  under  the  sobriquet  of  "  Oxford."  most  of  which  were  published  in  the  Port 
land  Transcript.  He  was  a,  deep  lover  of  nature  and  its  varying  seasons,  and  enjoyed  a 
quiet  ramble  about  the  fields  and  woods.  His  conversations  were  characterized  with 
quaint  originality.  He  was  a  close  observer  of  men  and  their  manners,  always  enjoying 
the  society  of  congenial  friends,  but  somewhat  inclined  to  misanthropic  views  of  the 
world  at  large.  During  the  last  years  of  his  store  life  his  health  began  to  fail,  and,  after 
a  short  confinement  to  his  house  in  the  fall  of  1868,  he  died  October  7,  at  the  age  of  35 
years.  He  was  married  on  his  dying  bed  to  .Miss  Emily  Atwood  of  Buckneld. 

THE  BEATING  OF  THE  RAIN. 
I  lay  the  book  aside,  I  love  the  soothing  sound, 

And  turn  my  weary  eyes  And  monotonous  refrain, 

To  the  river's  rolling  tide,  That  come  from  roof  and  ground, 

And  the  overhmging  skies.  At  the  beating  of  the  rain. 


I  try  to  pierce  the  gloom 
That  swallows  half  the  plain, 

And  no  sound  invades  the  room 
But  the  beating  of  the  r  lin. 

Yes,  the  river  murmurs  low, 
Like  a  spirit  under  pain, 

In  its  ever  onward  now 
To  the  waters  of  the  main. 

But  for  these  a  silence  deep 
All  the  valley  seems  to  fill, 

The  flowers  of  the  garden  sleep, 
The  singing  birds  are  still. 

I  hear  no  echoing  feet, 
Nor  din  of  moving  wain; 

No  noise  comes  off  the  street 
But  the  beating  of  the  rain. 


I  often  think  of  thee 
As  the  hours  slowly  wane, 

Dost  thou  listen  now  like  me 
To  the  beating  of  the  rain  ? 

Though  from  me  thou  art  gone, 
Thy  pleasant  looks  remain; 

Still  I  hear  thy  tender  tone 
In  the  beating  of  the  rain. 

The  day  will  shortly  end, 

For  the  twilight  shadows  gain, 

Yet  the  river's  murmurs  blend 
With  the  beating  of  the  rain. 

And  the  notes  of  yonder  bell, 
From  the  steeple  of  the  fane, 

For  vespers  lapse  and  swell 
Midst  the  beating  of  the  rain. 


476  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE, 


Mrs.  Prudence  E.  R.  Curtis,  a  daughter  of  John  and  Esther  (Rowe)  Gooch,  was  born  at 
Yarmouth,  April  20,  1831.  Her  father  was  son  of  John  Gooch,  an  owner  in  the  mills 
then  located  on  Gooch  Falls,  in  Royal  River.  Her  father's  brothers  were  J.  M.  Gooch, 
William  B.  Gooch,  M.  I).,  Rev.  James  Gooch,  and  Samuel  Gooch,  LL.  1).  At  an  early 
age  Miss  Gooch  developed  a  marked  poetic  talent,  and  a  noble  Christian  character  which 
she  still  sustains.  Kov.  8,  1858,  she  was  married  to  Chessman  Curtis,  of  Leeds. 

HOPE. 

AN   EXTKACT. 

Hope  shines  forever  pure  and  bright, 

It  never  fades  away; 
It  is  a  ray  of  heavenly  light 

Unyielding  to  decay. 

'T  is  hope  that  bears  our  spirits  up 

When  falling  in  despair; 
Nor  sinks  the  heart,  with  this  its  prop, 

Though  hard  may  be  our  fare. 

It  rears  our  castles  to  the  skies, 

With  faith  increases  grace, 
And  with  it  we  may  some  day  rise 

To  find  in  heaven  a  place. 


tllvill 


A  native  of  Augusta,  and  a  son  of  the  late  Frederic  A.  Fuller,  Esq.,  a  lawyer  of  that 
city.  Melville  was  born,  Feb.  11,  1833,  and  prepared  himself,  by  a  course  of  self-educa 
tion,  for  Bowdoin  College,  graduating  in  1853  with  distinguished  honor.  He  began  the 
practice  of  law  in  his  native  city,  and  was  an  associate  editor  of  The  Aye.  He  was  Presi 
dent  of  the  Common  Council,  and  City  Solicitor;  but  soon  removed  to  Chicago.  So  well 
did  he  perform  his  duties  as  a  man  of  "business  that,  in  1861,  he  was  elected  to  the  State 
constitutional  convention,  and  in  the  year  following  to  the  General  Assembly.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Democratic  national  convention  in  18G4,  and  in  1872  of  the  Baltimore 
Democratic -convention.  Mr.  Fuller  has  cultivated  literary  tastes,  as  shown  in  lectures 
and  poems  before  college  and  other  societies. 


REMORSE. 

I  may  not  flee  it !  in  the  crowded  street, 

Or  in  the  solitude  by  all  forgot, 
'T  is  ever  there,  a  visitant  unmeet, 

Deep  in  my  heart,  the  worm  that  dieth  not. 

There  is  no  consolation  in  the  thought 

That  from  her  lips  no  chiding  words  were  spoken, 
That  her  great  soul  on  earth  for  nothing  sought, 

Toiling  for  me  until  its  chords  were  broken. 


WLL  LI  A  M  HENRY  S  A  VA  GE.  47  7 

Too  late,  the  knowledge  of  that  deep  devotion ! 

Too  late,  belief  of  what  I  should  have  done! 
Chained  to  my  fate,  to  suffer  the  corrosion 

Of  my  worn  heart  until  life's  sands  are  run. 

Why  should  I  weep  ?  why  raise  the  voice  of  wailing  ? 

Why  name  the  pangs  that  keep  me  on  the  rack  ? 
Or  prayers  or  tears  alike  were  unavailing, 

She  has  gone  hence !  I  cannot  call  her  back. 

And  I  alone  must  wander  here  forsaken  — 

In  crowded  street  or  in  secluded  spot, 
From  that  sad  dream,  O  never  more  to  waken 

Or  cease  to  feel  the  worm  that  dieth  not. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONG. 

Gaily  the  wine  in  our  goblets  is  gleaming, 
Bright  on  its  surface  the  foam-bubbles  swim ; 

So  the  smiles  of  our  joy,  from  each  countenance  beaming, 
Are  the  bubbles  that  dance  on  the  cup  of  life's  brim. 

O  what  are  life's  hopes  and  its  high  aspirations, 
But  wishes  for  things  that  are  not  what  they  seem  ? 

Away  to  .the  shades  with  such  dull  contemplations, 
Utopian  visions  where  all  is  a  dream — 

The  flag  at  our  mast-head  is  pleasure's  own  banner, 
And  to  the  breeze  boldly  its  broad  folds  we  fling, 

While  each  stout-hearted  sailor  will  raise  the  hosanna 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus,  our  jolly-souied  king. 

Then  fill  up  your  glasses,  lads,  fill  up  your  glasses, 
With  frolicsome  pleasure  the  moments  employ, 

Since  life  is  a  span,  each  bright  hour  as  it  passes, 
When  seized  on  its  flight,  it  is  ours  to  enjoy. 


William  Henry  Savage  was  bom  in  Woolwich,  Me.,  in  1833.  He  is  the  son  of  Joseph 
L  and  Ann  Stinsoii  Savage.  The  family  removed  to  Norridgewock  before  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  was  a  year  old,  and  in  the  latter  place  he  spent  his  boyhood  and  early  youth. 
In  1854  he  entered  Bowdoin  College,  graduating  in  1858.  He  went  immediately  to  Dela 
ware  as  Professor  of  Mathematics  in  Delaware  College.  Just  before  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Kebellion  he  returned  to  the  North  to  engage  in  business  in  Portland.  In  1862  he 
enlisted  in  the  17th  Maine  Infantry.  After  a  few  months  he  retired  from  the  service, 
broken  in  health,  with  the  rank  of  captain.  In  1867  he  graduated  from  Andover  Semi 
nary,  and  is  now  minister  of  the  First  Parish,  Watertown,  Mass. 

32* 


478  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

THE  HOME  SEEKER. 

Twilight  falls :  a  tiny  maiden 
Cometh  up  the  village  street; 

Vagrant  locks,  all  dewy-laden. 
Eager  eyes  and  tired  feet 

Hath  the  shadowy  little  maiden. 

Tired  of  wandering  and  of  playing, 
Up  the  dim  street,  see  her  come ; 

Hurrying  now,  and  now  delaying, 
Towards  the  rest  and  love  of  home 

Comes  the  maiden  from  her  playing. 

See  again!  a  woman  hasting 
Down  a  shadowy  sunset-way, 

Loving,  anxious  glances  casting 
Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray; 

Homeward,  love-ward,  she  is  hasting. 

Laughing  children  run  to  meet  her 
From  the  home-door,  open  wide ; 

Loving  words  and  kisses  greet  her, 
Pattering  feet  run  by  her  side; 

All  the  home  comes  forth  to  meet  her. 

Look  once  more:  a  pilgrim  weary 
Stancleth  in  the  twilight  gray; 

All  around  is  strange  and  dreary, 

And  she  asks,  with  plaintive  query, 
"  Can  you  show  the  homeward  way  ? 

Lead  me  homeward;  I  am  weary." 

Then  a  Presence  stood  to  guide  her, 
Pointed  where  the  way  did  lie; 

Gently  spoke  and  walked  beside  her 
To  a  gateway  dim  and  high. 
"Home,"  she  breathed,  with  restful  sigh, 

To  the  Presence  that  did  guide  her. 

Homeward  still,  the  tiny  maiden, 
Motherhood,  love  and  care-laden, 
Age,  with  weight  of  years  oppressed, 
Homeward  turn  for  love  and  rest. 
And  the  home,  with  open  door, 
Waits  with  "Welcome"  evermore. 


WILLIAN  HENRY  SAVAGE. 


479 


HARRY. 


At  the  gate  of  Silence, 

A  fair  boy  lay  : 
He  had  fallen  asleep 

On  a  toilsome  way. 

The  way  had  been  hard, 
But  no  trace  of  care 

Was  on  his  brow, 
As  he  rested  there. 

Some  blessed  dream 
Gave  a  tender  grace 

To  the  sleeping  form 
And  the  still  boy-face. 

Sweet  as  the  pansies 
He  held  in  his  hand, 

He  lay  at  the  gate 
Of  the  Silent  Land. 

Then  as  I  waited, 

The  mother  came : 
She  kissed  his  lips, 

And  she  sobbed  his  name. 

Then  the  father  bent 
By  the  sleeper's. side, 

And  whispered,  "  Harry !"- 
No  voice  replied. 

Some  strange  enchantment, 

Holy  and  deep, 
Still  held  the  boy 

In  his  beatiful  sleep, 

While  they  lifted  him  gently 
And  bore  him  away; 

And  I  stood  alone 
Where  the  sleeper  lay. 

Then!— Was  it  a  vision 
Came  over  my  soul  ? — 

I  saw  the  gates 
Of  Silence  unroll. 

I  saw  a  figure 

With  aspect  grand, 
Leading  the  boy 

Through  a  beautiful  land. 


I  saw  him  gather 

From  every  side 
The  friends  who  loved  him 

Before  they  died. 

They  gazed  on  the  pansies 
His  white  hand  bore, 

They  spoke  of  the  places 
They  knew  of  yore; 

They  asked  him  questions 

In  loving  wise, 
And  paid  with  kisses 

His  sweet  replies; 

They  talked  of  the  home 
From  which  he  came, 

They  spoke  the  father's, 
The  mother's  name. 

Then  spoke  the  boy, 

Amid  silence  deep: 
"Why  did  they  cry 

When  I  fell  asleep  ? 

"O  it  was  blessed, — 
The  resting  from  pain  I 

Did  they  not  know 
I  was  happy  again  ? 

"I  am  sure  that  they  saw  it,— 
The  smile  on  my  face, 

And  the  light  that  came  down 
From  this  beautiful  place. 

"  I  wish  they  could  see  usl — 
Dear  Grandpa,  don't  you  ? — 

And  know  that  the  best 
They  can  hope  for  is  true. 

"Send  some  one  to  tell  them! 

Send  quickly,  I  pray ! 
I  fear  they  are  weeping, 

While  I  am  away." 

I  heard  his  soft  pleading, 

In  trance  or  awake ; 
And  I  bring  you  the  message 

For  Harry's  dear  sake. 


480  THE  POETS  OF 


Mrs.  Sarah  M.  Kimball  was  born  in  Digdeguash,  N.  B.,  June  25, 1833.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Sarah  Milligan.  Her  childhood  and  youth,  from  the  age  of  four  years,  were 
spent  in  Calais,  Me.  Prom  the  age  of  seventeen  till  her  marriage  she  was  a  teacher  in 
the  public  schools  of  that  city  and  the  adjacent  rural  towns.  Nov.  13,  185G,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Rev.  Joseph  C.  Strout,  of  the  Maine  M.  E.  Conference,  and  with  him  spent  five 
years  in  the  itinerancy.  Jan.  25,  1802.  Mr.  Strout  died,  leaving  her  with  two  little  chil 
dren,  the  younger  of  whom  soon  followed  his  father  to  that  golden  hope  of  the  itiner 
ant,  the  permanent  home.  The  older,  F.  M.  Strout,  of  Portland,  still  survives.  Dec.  26, 
1865,  she  was  married  to  Dea.  Stephen  Kimball  of  the  First  Orthodox  Congregational 
Church,  Wells.  Since  then  her  home  has  been  in  that  historic  old  town.  She  has  one 
child  by  this  marriage,  a  daughter  seventeen  years  old.  At  the  age  of  eight  years  she 
commenced  expressing  her  thoughts  and  emotions  in  verse.  She  hf!S  never  aspired  to 
the  loftier  flights  of  poetic  fancy,  content,  rather,  to  wander  in  the  cool,  flowery  by 
paths,  where  S!KJ  might  cull  a  birthday  garland,  or  a  wreath  for  the  bridal,  or  weave  a 
chaplet  for  the  pale,  dead  brow  of  some  dear  friend.  During  her  widowhood,  in  the  strug 
gle  for  the  support  of  herself  and  her  boy,  she  entered  the  arena  of  story  writers,  her  first 
story,  "Mattie's  Experience,"  being  published  in  the  Port/and  Transcript,  in  1864. 
Since  then,  she  has  confined  her  efforts  principally  to  that  department  of  literature,  but 
she  has  not  been  an  industrious  writer.  In  1884,  the  only  book  which  she  has  written, 
11  My  Aunt  Jeanette,"  was  published  by  Phillips  &  Hunt,  N.  Y.  It  was  placed  in  their 
Sunday-school  department,  ami  has  had  very  gratifying  success.  With  her  experience  of 
life,  and  the  quiet  leisiue  of  her  retired  home,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  in  literature,  as  well 
as  in  life,  her  last  days  will  be  her  best. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Behold  the  earth  to-day, 
Lapped  in  the  glory  of  the  autumn-time, 

Robed  in  this  bright  array, 
Crimson  and  gold,  russet  and  pearly  rime ! 

Now  comes  the  after-glow, 
Like  sunset  splendors  flushing  orient  skies, 

While  lightly  from  below 
Soft  floating  folds  of  gauzy  mists  arise. 

Yea,  earth  is  beautiful 
In  vestments  dyed  so  exquisitely  fair; 

Grateful  the  pensive  lull 
Of  voices  late  upon  the  ambient  air. 

The  cheery  notes  are  still 
Of  harvest  songs  so  gaily  ringing  here, 

And  low,  sweet  anthems  fill 
With  slumbrous  melody  the  attent  ear. 

Dear  is  the  soft  caress 
Of  light  winds  warm  from  sunny  south-lands  now 

Lifting  the  auburn  tress 
In  playful  coquetry  from  Nature's  brow. 

The  gladsome  spring  is  past, 
And  the  full  beauty  of  the  summer-time;— 

O  Year !  to  thee,  at  last, 
Hath  come  the  golden  glory  of  thy  prime! 


SAEAU  MILLIGAN  KIMBALL.  481 


O  Life !  thy  spring  lies  far 
In  misty  shades,  half-hidden  from  my  sight; 

Thy  summer  glories  are 
Far  back  'mid  bowers  of  beauty  and  delight. 

O  heart  of  mine!  to  thee 
Hath  come  thine  Indian  Summer,  and  to-day 

With  wondering  eyes  I  see 
Life's  after-glow  illumining  my  way! 

One  backward  glance,  half  sad, 
I  give  the  beautiful,  the  vanished  past, 

Then  turn  my  gaze,  half  glad 
That  I  have  gained  this  summit  grand  at  last. 

Father,  take  Thou  my  hand, 
And  lead  me  down  with  gentle,  loving  care 

Into  the  sunset  land, 
Life's  restful  vale,— "'tis  beautiful  down  there!" 


TWENTY-ONE. 

I  miss  the  patter  of  little  feet 

Upon  the  kitchen  floor, 
And  the  roguish  little  rap-a-tap 

Falling  upon  the  door, 
With  the  eager  shout  of  wild  delight, 

As,  opening  it,  I  espied 
A  bright,  mischievous,  childish  face, 

Brown-cheeked  and  sunny-eyed. 

I  miss  the  hungry  call  for  bread; 

The  "Mother,  I  want  a  string!" 
The  balls  to  cover,  the  kites  to  paste, 

The  bells  on  the  sled  to  ring; 
The  garments  torn  in  the  daring  climb, 

The  shouts  of  exultant  glee, 
And  the  headstrong,  boyish  wilfulness 

That  sometimes  fretted  me. 

I  miss  the  noisy,  boisterous  laugh, 

The  merrily  whistled  tune, 
The  song  that  seemed  to  my  mother  ear 

As  sweet  as  a  bird's  in  June. 
I  miss  a  form  bending  by  my  knee 

As  the  bed-time  hour  draws  near, 
And  a  murmuring  voice  that  softly  said 

Our  Father's  blesse'd  prayer. 


482  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


\ 


Later,  I  miss  at  evening  time 

A  boy  with  his  slate  and  book, 
The  pencil's  click  and  the  thoughtful  face, 

With  its  sober,  earnest  look; 
The  flash  of  triumph,  as,  fair  and  white 

The  conquered  problem  stood, 
And  the  boyish  words  of  victory: — 

u  I '  ve  got  it,  mother !     Good ! " 

All  that  I  miss  I  cannot  tell, 

For  many,  many  a  thing 
Flashes  between  me  and  my  work, 

On  memory's  fitful  wing. 
The  roguish  hands,  the  tattered  clothes, 

The  thoughtful  face  are  gone. 
"Dead?"  did  you  ask,  sir?     No,  thank  God! 

But,  you  see,  he  is  "  twenty-one." 

Twenty-one,  sir,— out  in  the  world, 

Braving  the  din  and  strife, 
Doing  his  part  with  a  sturdy  will 

Of  the  earnest  work  of  life. 
He  comes — a  man  with  a  firm,  quick  step,    ] 

And  I  kiss  him  at  the  door, 
But  my  little,  make-believe-company  boy 

Will  come  to  me  no  more. 

Father  in  heaven!  O  let  mo  bring 

One  prayer  to  Thee  to-night: — 
May  his  life's  problem  stand  at  last 

Right-solved,  and  pure,  and  white. 
Give  or  withhold  the  world's  poor  wealth, 

But  the  love,  the  light,  the  joy 
Of  a  noble,  honest,  Christian  life, 

Grant  Thou  unto  my  boy. 


MIRIAM. 

IN    MY   DEAR   FRIEND    MIRIAM'S   ALBUM. 

Immortal  name !    Recalling  to  our  thoughts 
Victorious  anthems  sung  by  maidens  fair; 

Music  of  harp  and  timbrel  sounding  forth 
Triumphant  strains  upon  the  desert  air. 

"Miriam!"  One  of  the  illustrious  three 
Chosen  by  God  to  lead  his  people  forth 

From  Egypt's  bondage  to  a  fruitful  land, 

"  The  glory  and  the  praise  of  the  whole  earth." 


ELLEN  FES  SEN  DEN  LINCOLN.  483 

"  Miriam,"  sweet  friend,  glory,  and  praise,  and  joy, 
Ne'er  dreamed  of  in  those  morning  twilight  hours, 

E'en  by  those  favored  ones,  these  Gospel  days 
Resplendent  shed  on  Zion's  holy  towers. 

The  Moslem,  with  his  face  towards  the  East, 
May  pray  where  Juda's  gold-domed  temple  stood; 

The  wandering  Bedouin  may  pitch  his  tent 
By  Jordan's  stream  or  Gallilee's  fair  flood; 

Yet  shall  the  Church,  God's  temple  here  below, 

Stand  fair  and  beautiful  before  the  world, 
A  glory  and  a  joy, — from  her  high  towers 

The  conquering  banner  of  our  Christ  unfurled ! 

And  lofty  praises  still,  with  harp  and  voice 

Sound  from  her  altars  to  Immaiiuel's  name, 
And  still,  mid  those  who  love  her,  I  behold, 

Inscribed  on  her  fair  records,  "Miriam." 


jjjllen 


]mcaln. 


Mrs.  Ellen  F.  Lincoln  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  April  21,  1833.  She  was  the  only 
daughter  and  youngest  child  of  Samuel  Fessenden,  LL.  I).  In  June,  18G2,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Dr.  John  Dunlap  Lincoln,  of  Brunswick,  Me.,  and  has  resided  there  since  her 


marriage.    Her  first  contributions  were  printed  in  the  Maine  Evangelist,  a  paper  then 
her,  Rev.  Samuel  C.  Fessenden,  of  Rookland,  Me.    Afterward  she,  at 


edited  by  her  brother 


rare  intervals,  was  a  contributor  to  the  Koston  ConffrcyationaMst,  the  Portland  Tran 
script,  Youth's  Companion,  and  Krery  Other  Saturday.  She  has  not  written  for  fame 
or  made  any  claim  to  literary  attainments,  and  only  w'ith  extreme  reluctance  has  sub 
mitted  her  work  to  the  public  eye.  Literature  has  not  been  her  profession,  her  cares  a* 
a  wife  and  mother,  being  all-absorbing. 

THE  DAYS  GO  ON. 
Whether  short  or  whether  long, 
Whether  weak  or  whether  strong, 
Whether  grave  or  whether  gay, 
Whether  we  would  have  them  stay 
Or  would  speed  their  flying  feet 
Till  the  hours  were  all  complete, 
They  must  go,  they  cannot  last, — 
Go,  to  join  the  silent  past. 

We  may  chide  their  rapid  flight, 
In  our  radiant  delight, 
Begging  for  ajf ond  delay, 
That  our  joys  may  with  us  stay. 
They  must  go!  and  we  must  part, 
Hand  from  hand  and  heart  from  heart. 
They  must  go !  and  we  shall  meet 
Others,  just  as  fair  and  fleet. 


484  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


We  may  pray  at  dawn  for  night, 
In  our  sad  and  wretched  plight, 
Tossing  on  our  bed  of  pain, 
Longing  for  relief  in  vain. 
They  must  go!  the  hardest  day 
Cannot,  will  not  last  for  aye, 
Patient  or  impatient,  we 
Its  glad  close  shall  surely  see. 

They  must  go!  are  going  fast: 
Only  one  will  be  our  last, 
Hastening  toward  us,  all  unguessed, 
Day  that  brings  our  final  rest, 
In  the  unknown  future ;  yet 
Our  faint  hearts  cannot  forget. 
Howr  to  meet  it  calm  in  trust, 
Teach  us,  Saviour!  come  it  must. 


HER  STORY. 
Only  a  little  thread  of  gold, 

Running  her  whole  life  through,  — 
So  plainly  she  could  see  it  here, 
Then  lost  awhile  could  trace  it  there, 

As  it  came  again  in  viewr. 

Only  a  little  rill  of  love 

That  watered  her  dusty  way; 
But  the  meagre  draught,  though  sweet  to  sip, 
And  quaffed  with  an  eager,  thirsting  lip, 

Could  not  that  thirst  allay. 

Only  a  bright  and  buoyant  hope, 

That  could  not  be  repressed ; 
But  it  lifted  at  once  her  weight  of  care, 
It  made  of  her  desert  a  gay  parterre, 

And  her  secret  was  unguessed. 

And  none  could  know  that  hidden  fount 

That  welled  within  her  heart: 
There  are  flowers  too  frail  for  blossoming, 
There  are  dreams  to  which  we  fondly  cling, 

Of  our  very  lives  a  part. 

Her  busy  days  at  last  were  done, 

And  the  weary  feet  had  rest. 
The  thread  of  gold  had  all  been  spun, 
The  little  rill  had  ceased  to  run, 

And  the  hope  died  unconfessed. 


ISAAC  B AS SETT  CHOATE.  485 

TO-DAY. 

The  sunshine  lingers  in  the  room, 

I  see  it  through  the  window  stream ; 
Kissing  the  pillow  where  he  lay 

His  head  in  many  a  boyish  dream. 
But  O  the  change  since  yesterday,— 

The  young,  strong  step  that  I  so  miss, 
The  weary  miles  now  stretching  on 

Between  us  and  my  last  fond  kiss. 

And  mine  had  been  a  different  plan,— 

A  dream  of  sheltered  nooks  and  bowers, 
Of  toil  and  pleasure  hand  in  hand, 

Of  home  and  friends  and  merry  hours. 
But  he  had  longed  to  try  the  world, 

Its  hopes,  its  promises,  its  cares, 
To  tempt  Dame  Fortune's  fickle  smile, 

And  win  her  to  him  unawares. 

And  so,  with  spirit  bold  and  brave, 

He  pressed  my  hand  in  mute  "good-bye," 
And  turned  aside,  lest  I  should  see 

The  tears  that  glistened  in  his  eye. 
And  my  poor  heart  was  aching  sore, 

He  might  have  heard  each  throb  of  pain, 
My  questioning  hearf,  that  yearned  to  know 

If  I  should  meet  my  boy  again. 

O^lif e  is  hard !    The  common  lot 

And  parting  wring  the  anguished  heart. 
But  O  how  differently  we'd  choose, 

Yet  see  our  fondest  hopes  depart ! 
We  take  the  burden  we  would  fain 

Lay  down,  and  fold  our  weary  hands, 
Praying  our  loss  may  be  his  gain, 

Trusting  to  Him  who  understands. 


jjazzett 

Isaac  Bassett  Choate  was  born  at  South  Otisfleld,  (Naples)  July  12,  1833.  He  was  grad 
uated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  the  class  of  1862.  Was  admitted  to  the  Cumberland  Bar, 
1805.  Has  been  for  several  years  an  editorial  writer  and  a  contributor  in  prose  and  verse 
to  newspapers  and  magazines.  Resides  in  Boston. 

"ESQUIMAU  JOE." 
Born  beneath  frosty  skies  Crystal  the  hills  above, 

In  an  igloo  of  ice  and  snow,  And  the  sea  was  of  crystal  below, 

All  was  bright  to  the  baby  eyes          What  was  home  by  a  mother's  love 

Of  "Esquimau  Joe."  For  "Esquimau  Joe." 


THE  POETS  OF  MA  L\E. 


Never  the  bond  would  part,  Faithful  unto  the  last 
However  far  he  might  go,  To  every  trust  here  below, 

That  bound  the  home  and  the  heart  To  the  promised  reward  has  pass< 
Of  "Esquimau  Joe."  Poor  "Esquimau  Joe." 

N  ever  forsaking  a  friend,  "  Puny"  and  "  Hannah"  sleep 

And  never  meeting  a  foe,  Where  the  daisies  and  violets  grow, 

Straight  to  his  journey's  end  But  under  the  Arctic  deep 
Went  "  Esquimau  Joe.'1  Sleeps  "  Esquimau  Joe." 


SONNET. 

With  what  fidelity  the  stone  retains, 

As  if  in  memory  it  kept  the  thought, 

The  feeling  kept  with  which  the  sculptor  wrought 

Upon  its  surface,  with  unstinted  pains, 

The  destiny  of  man  when  he  attains 

Of  Life  and  Death  the  parting  of  the  ways, 

Where  one  goes  out  from  life,  another  stays. 

And  neither  knows  the  blessing  that  he  gains. 

How  has  the  marble  kept,  through  all  the  years 

Since  in  Etruria  a  maiden  died, 

The  memory  of  that  parting,  with  its  tears, 

Its  fondly-spoken  greetings  and  farewells 

When  these  feet,  shod  with  sandals,  turned  aside 

To  follow  paths  o'erhung  by  asphodels. 


THE  HOMEWARD  WrAY. 

ODYSSEA,    BOOK    XIIT.,    70-92. 

When  they  came  down  to  the  sea  and  had  gone  on  board  of  the  vessel, 
Quick  did  they  stow  in  the  hold  of  the  ship-that  excellent  escort- 
Stores  which  they  had  received,  of  drink  and  of  food  all  their  rations: 
But  for  Odysseus  they  spread  down  a  mattress  and  cloth  wove  of  linen, 
On  the  deck  of  the  ship  that  undisturbed  he  might  slumber, 
Spreading  it  aft,  and  he  went  away  by  himself  and  he  lay  down 
Silent;  and  singly  the  men  took  each  one  his  seat  on  the  benches 
Sitting  in  rows,  and  the  rope  from  the  stone  that  was  drilled 

they  loosened. 

Forward  leaning,  the  men  threw  up  the  salt  spray  with  the  oar-blades, 
And  to  the  man  on  the  deck  sweet  slumber  fell  on  his  eyelids, 
Deep   exceedingly  sweet,  even  death  very  closely  resembling. 
As  to  the  ship,  like  four  steeds  harnessed  abreast  on  the  race-course, 
All  of  them  started  at  once  beneath  the  strokes  of  the  lashes, 
Rearing  and  settling  back  with  bounding  the  course  they  accomplish; 


JOHN  BARE  KIT  SOUTHGATE.  487 


So  the  stern  of  the  ship  was  tossed,  and  a  billow  behind  it, 
Purple  and  huge,  came  on  of  the  ocean  loudly  resounding. 
Safely  and  steadily  ran  the  ship,  and  never  a  falcon 
Could  in  his  wheeling  flight  keep  up  though  of  fowl  'tis  the  swiftest. 
So  on  her  bounding  course  the  waves  of  the  sea  was  she  cutting, 
Bearing  a  man  who  possessed  like  wisdom  with  that  of  immortals. 
Many  the  pangs  in  his  soul  which  he  aforetime  had  endured 
Trying  the  fortunes  of  war  and  crossing  the  billows  unfeeling: 
Then  was  he  sleeping  in  peace  forgetting  how  much  he  had  sufi't  red. 
When  most  brilliant  arose  the  constellation  which  foremost 
Comes  to  usher  the  light  of  Eos,  the  child  of  the  morning, 
Then  to  the  island  drew  near  the  ocean-traversing  vessel. 


jjohn  jjtirrett 


Rev.  John  B.  Southgate  was  born  in  Portland,  July  25,  1833,  and  was  fitted  for  college 
in  that  city,  under  Joseph  Libbey,  and  at  Yarmouth  Academy,  under  Allen  H.  Weld.  At 
the  Commencement  at  Bowdoin.  in  1856,  he  delivered  the  English  oration  as  candidate 
for  the  degree  of  M.  A.,  and  at  graduation  he  spent  a  year  at  home  in  a  course  of  study 
preparatory  to  entering  the  Theological  School  in  New  York,  from  which  he  graduated 
with  great  credit  in  1857,  "  the  most  learned  man  and  the  finest  writer  and  thinker  of  hip 
class."  In  August,  of  the  same  year,  he  entered  upon  his  duties  as  the  rector  of  Trinity 
Parish,  Lewiston.  Resigning  the  rectorship  at  Lewiston.  in  June,  1858,  he  was  placed  in 
charge  of  a  mission  at  Hallowell,  and  in  December  of  the  same  year  was  appointed  a 
missionary  to  China,  but,  owing  to  failing  health  and  the  unwillingness  of  his  mother 
to  part  with  him,—  her  own  health  being  very  delicate  at  the  time,—  he  soon  afterwards 
abandoned  his  purpose  of  going  thither.  Soon  after  May  22,  1859.  he  relinquished  the 
charge  of  the  mission  at  Hallowell.  On  Sunday.  March  20,  1859,  he  was  ordained  to  the 
priesthood  in  St.  Luke's  Church,  Portland,  by  Bishop  Burgess,  and  had  charge  of  St. 
John's  Church,  Wheeling,  Va.,  for  about  six  months.  The  greater  portion  of  1860-61 
was  spent  at  his  father's  in  Scarborough.  He  had  charge,  during  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  time,  of  Trinity  Church,  Saco.  During  the  winter  of  18G1-62  his  health  and 
strength  failed  very  rapidly.  He  died  of  consumption  at  Scarborough,  Feb.  7  18(52  aged 
twenty-eight  years,  six  months,  thirteen  days;  was  buried  at  Portland,  and  was  subse 
quently  removed  to  the  burial-ground  in  Scarborough.  Obituary  notices  of  considerable 
length,  extolling  the  virtues  ot  Mr.  Southgate,  were  published  in  the  New  York  Vhureh 
Journal,  the  Boston  Christian  Witness,  and  other  leading  religious  journals:  : 


LINES.  '.'•"."' 

MEMORY   OF    CHARLES    DRUMMONI),    OF    THE    IIOWDOIN    CLASS    OF    lKr)3. 

How  strange  appear  the  things  of  our  existence. 

When,  wandering  listless  through  unused  retreats, 
The  soul  turns  back,  and,  viewing  from  the  distance, 

Sees  with  new  eyes  the  daily  facts  it  meets! 

We  see  but  products  bick  of  all  discerning: 

Works  mystical  machinery  unseen, 
Where  glittering  bands  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  are  turning, 

And  guiding  fingers  come  and  go  between. 

We  find  ourselves,  in  life's  first  conscious  morning, 

In  pilgrim  garb,  and  staffs  within  our  hands. 
Impelled  to  journey,  without  light  or  warning, 

By  unknown  courses,  into  unnamed  lands. 


486  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


E'en  while  we  walk,  in  learning  wonder  gazing 
On  sequent  marvels  that  our  way  bedight, 

O'er  eager  eyes  a  dusky  film  comes  glazing, 
And  trembling  feet  are  groping  in  the  night. 

At  length  we  miss  one  from  among  our  number, 
And,  searching  back,  can  only  find  where  lies 

A  cold,  stiff  form,  wrapped  in  a  wakeless  slumber, 
While  Hylas-echoes  mock  our  frantic  cries. 

These  are  thy  facts,  O  Reason:  take  and  ponder; 

Strain  Orpheus-like,  into  the  deepening  gloom; 
Track  the  lost  life;  lift  off  this  heavy  wonder! 

0  life-guide,  know,  not  guess,  beyond  the  tomb ! 

Vain,  taunting  prayer.     Poor  consolation  giveth 
Coarse-fingered  Reason,  grasping  at  a  wraith : 

The  sure  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth" 
Chants  no  cold  reason,  but  a  fervent  faith. 

Thou  canst,  O  Faith,  the  mystery  unravel; 

By  thee  we  track  the  strange,  lost  life  we  miss : 
The  loved  that  Cadmus  sought,  with  weary  travel, 

A  god  had  raised  to  his  isles  of  bliss. 


Jfimis  gnnt 


Amos  Ij.  Hinds  was  born  in  Clinton,  near  Beuton,  Xov.  12,  1833,  was  graduated  at 
Watervilie— now  Colby  University  -in  the  summer  of  1858.  He  has  lived,  the  largest 
portion  of  his  life  since,  in  his  native  place,  following  that  best  of  all  industries,  a  farm 
er's  vocation. 


UNCLE  STEPHEN. 

"  A  story,  a  story,"  says  Golden  Head, 
As  she  storms  her  father's  knee; 

"Not  fairy,  but  some  tender  tale, 
And  as  true,  as  true  can  be." 

11  Well,  daughter,  lay  these  sunny  curls 

Just  here  upon  my  breast, 
And  round  the  dainty  little  form 

Let  father's  fond  arms  rest; 
Then,  while  a  purpling  glory  fills 

The  restful  even-tide, 
And  far  across  the  tuneful  fields, 

The  ^lengthening  shadows  glide, 


AMOS  LUNT  HINDS.  489 


I  '11  tell  of  one  who  sleeps  in  peace 

These  fifty  years  and  more, 
Where  yonder  ancient  oak-tree  shades 

The  bickering  streamlet's  shore. 
His  neighbors  called  him  '  Uncle  Stephen,' 

A  fond,  familiar  name— 
I  notice,  oft  with  generous  souls 

Men  loving  kinship  claim. 


"You  can't  remember  the  year  'sixteen,' 

It  passed  so  long  ago ; 
They  only  do  whose  reverent  heads 

Are  white  like  falling  snow. 
That  year  no  fruitful  summer  came 

To  bless  the  waiting  land ; 
Somehow,  the  constant  season  missed 

Its  Master's  just  command. 
For  sixty  years  ago  to-night, 

When  June's  soft  breezes  blow, 
There  lay  above  the  pallid  hills 

A  shroud  of  drifting  snow, 
And  o'er  the  wondering  farmers'  homes 

Fell  fierce  a  swirling  rout, 
As  on  those  wild  December  nights, 

When  stormy  winds  are  out. 
Through  all  the  dismal  morning  hours, 

Across  the  whitening  lands, 
Farmers  had  walked  beside  their  plows 

With  closely-mittened  hands, 
And  chilling  red-breasts  hopped  for  food, 

Where  the  furrow,  darkling,  lay, 
Till  pitying  plowmen  stayed  their  teams, 

And  lifted  them  away. 
And  so,  the  dreary  season  through, 

Each  month  the  hoar-frost  fell, 
Till  wintry  autumn's  wailing  winds 

Moaned  like  a  funeral  knell. 
No  happy  songs  of  harvest  home, 

Fierce  winter  at  the  door, 
Earless,  the  stricken  corn-fields  stood, 

God  help  the  friendless  poor ! 
For  those  were  days  of  pioneers, 

Shut  off  from  other  lands, 
They  had  alone,  in  hours  of  need, 

Their  own  stout  hearts  and  hands. 

38 


4<)0  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


To-day,  let  summer  suns  refuse 

To  grace  with  gleaming  grain, 
And  ranks  of  golden-tasseled  maize, 

The  rocky  hills  of  Maine ; 
And  thrice  ten  thousand  hearts,  with  ours 

In  kindliest  union  wed, 
Through  all  the  vast  and  fruitful  West, 

Would  fill  the  land  with  bread." 

"And  Uncle  Stephen ? "     " Daughter,  yes, 

We'll  make  no  more  delay, 
When  one  has  pleasant  words  to  speak 

He  loiters  on  the  way. 
Beside  yon  stream,  that  through  the  years, 

With  ever-murmuring  wave, 
Sings  to  the  wild  anemones, 

Abloom  above  his  grave, 
Just  where  the  brook  and  river  meet 

Beneath  the  pine-clad  hill, 
Stood,  in  the  century's  early  dawn, 

Good  Uncle  Stephen's  mill, 
Where  all  the  cheery  summer  days, 

With  dreamy,  slumbrous  sound, 
Grinding  the  corn  from  far  and  near, 

His  rumbling  stones  went  round. 

"  It  may  not  be  the  miller  had 

A  poet's  heart  and  brain, 
That  unseen  music  filled  the  air, 

The  while  he  ground  his  grain. 
Perchance  his  dull  ears  never  heard, 

On  summer  evenings  lone, 
Beneath  the  river's  babbling  flow, 

Its  mystic  undertone. 
Or,  musing  through  the  silent  noons, 

Untouched  by  toil  or  care, 
He  never  heard  the  harvest-fly 

Shrill  through  the  shimmering  air; 
Or  saw  beneath  his  sleeping  mere, 

The  mirrored  pine-trees,  through, 
Far  fleets  of  snowy,  summer  clouds, 

Go  sailing  down  the  blue. 
Yet  they  who  read  aright  the  page 

Of  years,  dark-lined  with  wrong, 
Oan  see  in  Uncle  Stephen's  life 

A  most  ethereal  song, 


AMOS  L  UNT  HINDS.  491 


The  rhythmic  beauty  of  good  deeds; 

Since  never  from  his  door 
Unpitied  or  unaided  went 

One  of  God's  homeless  poor. 
Amid  life's  ills  his  bounteous  heart 

A  thousand  ways  was  tested, 
Till  o'er  his  humble  home  it  seemed 

A  rainbow's  arch  had  rested ; 
And  on  the  darkest  winter  day, 

About  the  little  mill, 
Brooded  the  charm  of  sweet  content, 

The  sunshine  of  good-will. 

"But  when,  mid  years  with  plenty  crowned, 

The  famed  '  cold  season '  came, 
Then  all  the  fires  within  his  soul 

Burst  into  cheeriest  flame. 
From  many  a  distant  country-side, 

Seeking  for  corn  in  store, 
The  rich  and  shrewd,  on  weary  quest, 

Drew  rein  beside  his  door, 
'  To  purchase  corn  for  daily  needs 

We  find  no  trifling  task; 
Sell  us  your  grain,  we'll  make  no  terms, 

But  pay  you  what  you  ask.' 
*Nay,  nay,'  the  sturdy  miller  said, 

'I  must  not  sell  to  you; 
The  money  in  your  well-filled  purse 

Hath  power  to  help  you  through,— 
I  keep  my  corn  for  those  who  have 

No  money  left  to  pay; 
I  '11  trust  them  in  their  hour  of  need, 

And  bide  the  time  they  may.' 

"  Their  struggling  mother  left  behind, 

The  father  gone  before, 
One  day  two  little  orphans  stood 

Beside  the  river's  shore, 
Bearing  within  their  slender  arms 

Some  scanty  store  of  corn, 
Gleaned  with  as  sad  a  heart  as  Ruth's 

In  Judah's  fields,  forlorn; 
And,  as  was  wont,  their  small  halloo 

They  sent  across  the  tide, 
Till  Uncle  Stephen  from  his  mill 

Their  little  forms  espied, 
And,  loosing  straight  his  log  canoe, 


492  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Was  quickly  at  their  side. 
How  soon  the  little  ones,  at  first 

Abashed,  were  at  their  ease ! 
For  Uncle  Stephen,  gray  and  old, 

Had  deftest  power  to  please. 
The  bounty  in  his  welcome  smile, 

His  genial,  child-like  way, 
Their  orphaned  hearts  like  sunlight  cheered 

The  live-long  summer  day. 
And  when  the  lingering  solstice  sun 

Shone  like  a  far  gold  dome, 
With  words  of  cheer  to  bear  along, 

He  sent  them,  happy,  home. 

"That  evening,  as  the  weary  dame 

Drew  forth  her  precious  store, 
The  chest,  that  held  the  corn  she  sent, 

Was  brimming  o'er  and  o'er. 
'Gramercy,  children,  how  is  this!' 

The  dazed  good  wife  did  say, 
'  Has  Uncle  Stephen  failed  to  toll 

Our  little  grist  to-day  ?' 
*  O  yes  indeed,  he  tolled  the  grist,' 

The  guileless  orphan  said, 
'For  resting  his  brown,  wrinkled  hand 

On  little  brother's  head, 
While  just  the  faintest,  queerest  smile 

Played  round  his  quivering  lip, 
I  saw  his  heaping  measure,  thrice, 

From  bin  to  hopper  dip.' 
Then  with  o'erflowing  heart  and  eye, 

The  mother  knelt  to  pray, 
And  many  a  swift  God-bless  him  sent 

Its  tearful,  tremulous  way, 
To  where,  above  these  mists  of  time, 

Heaven's  mystic  uplands  lay. 
O  well  for  him  whose  whispered  name, 

Breathed  forth  mid  grateful  tears, 
Like  some  sweet  note  in  music  meets 

God's  ever-listening  ears! 

"  Between  the  lines,  O  Golden  Head! 

Your  musing  father  reads 
This  lesson  clear,  that  generous  souls 

And  tender,  loving  deeds, 
In  this  self-seeking  world  of  ours, 

Are  what  the  Master  needs; 


DAVID  HAKMMONS  HILL.  493 


That,  would  we  have  life's  closing  hours 

With  peaceful  glory  kissed, 
Like  those  white  clouds  that  sleeping  lie 

Mid  rosy  amethyst, 
We  should  remember  as  we  live, 

How  the  good  man  ground  his  grist." 


kwid  jjjannnwns  Jjjill. 


Hon.  David  H.  Hill  was  born  in  North  Berwick,  Dec.  12,  1833,  and  removed  with  his 
father's  family  to  Sandwich,  N".  H.,  in  1837,  where  he  has  since  remained,  except  when 
absent  in  teaching,  or  engaged  in  academical  and  professional  studies.  He  read  law  in 
the  office  of  Hon.  Samuel  M.  Wheeler  and  Hon.  Joshua  G.  Hall,  at  Dover.  N.  H.,  and 
at  the  Harvard  Law  School,  in  the  senior  class,  but  did  not  graduate.  He  has  been 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  Sandwich  for  about  twenty-one  years  past, 
giving  little  time  to  other  pursuits,  though  he  writes  excellently  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  He  was  a  member  of  the  State  Legislature  in  1870  and  1871,  and  was  appointed 
to  the  office  of  Judge  of  Probate  for  Carroll  County  in  1880,  which  position  he  still  holds. 


KIARSARGE. 

A   MOUNTAIN   PICTURE. 

Oft  have  I  thought  to  stand 

Upon  the  hanks  of  the  mysterious  Nile; 
While  tender  moonlight  bathes  that  ancient  land, 

And  watch,  afar,  the  while 

O'er  Nubian  mountains  rise, 

Bright  stars,  that  kindle  the  wild  continent; 
Walking  all  night  through  the  resplendent  skies 

To  the  low  Occident. 

Yet,  sterner  prospects  ris^ 

Where  the  imperial  mountains  lift  their  vast 
Dark  domes  into  New  Hampshire  skies, 

And  strange,  weird  shadows  cast 

Where  brawling  streamlets  flow 

O'er  foaming  falls,  and  through  dark,  shadowy  woods, 
Thundering  in  boiling  torrents,  far  below, 

In  sunless  solitudes. 

I  stood  on  lone  Kiarsarge; 

The  sun  o'er  purple  mountains  sank  to  rest; 
Strange  pictures  hung  on  the  horizon's  marge, 

Low  in  the  burning  west. 

In  that  wild,  billowy  sea 

Of  mountains,  ranged  in  terrible  array, 
I  saw,  unveiled,  the  land  of  mystery; 

There  fading  daylight  lay 


494  THE  POET  IS  OF  MA  JNE. 


In  tender,  golden  gleams; 

And  that  wild  desolation  to  my  eyes 
Seemed  like  the  land  we  picture  in  our  dreams, 

Bright  dreams  of  Paradise. 

As  mountain  islands  rear 

Their  rocky  cliffs  over  the  watery  main, 
So  in  the  depths  of  the  high  atmosphere 

Stood  peerless  Carrigam. 

That  ancient  rampart  rose 

Like  a  high  priest  communing  with  the  heaven, 
Smit  with  the  fiery  tints  of  day's  calm  close, 

Softened  with  hues  of  even. 

Beyond  those  mountain  chains, 

Whose  gray  walls  rest  against  the  low-browed  skyr 
The  ancient  king  of  desolation  reigns, 

As  countless  years  roll  by. 

High  in  the  upper  deep, 

Gray  cliffs,  dark  domes,  and  summits  brown  and  bare, 
Far  in  the  illimitable  azure  sleep, 

Of  the  pure  upper  air. 


CHOCORUA. 

AN    EXTRACT. 

The  sun  adown  the  golden  west 

O'er  Passacon way's  dome  was  set; 
When  on  Chocorua's  cold,  sharp  crest 

The  stern,  avenging  warriors  met. 
The  prophet  spoke:     "  We  meet  at  last; 

And  yet,  for  one,  no  morn  shall  rise ; 
Then  let  his  farewell  glance  be  cast 

Up  to  the  solemn,  starry  skies, 
For  wrongs  that  may  not  be  forgiven 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  up  to  heaven." 

With  hands  uplifted  to  the  sky 
Cornelius  Campbell  made  reply: 
"  Speak  you  of  wrongs  yet  unforgiven  ? 
Wrongs  that  cry  up  from  earth  to  heaven 
By  Him  who  kindled  the  great  sun, 
I  swear,  no  wrong  by  me  was  done, 
But  crimes  my  lips  forbear  to  tell, 
Such  as  insatiate  fiends  of  hell 


DAVID  HAENMON 8  HILL.  405 


Miglit  plot,  in  your  wild  brain  were  planned, 

And  wrought  by  your  twice  murdering  hand. 

We  meet,  in  deadliest  hate,  alone 

On  this  bleak  mount,  this  tower  of  stone, 

In  the  cold  silence  of  the  sky; 

Now  witness,  Heaven's  avenging  eye! 

I'll  hurl  you  from  this  mountain's  brow 

Down  to  that  yawning  gulf  below, 

Where  only  bird  or  beast  of  prey 

Shall  bear  your  whitened  bones  away." 

Chocorua  spoke:     "  Where  in  the  deep, 
Wild  north,  earth's  ancient  mountains  rise, 

Where  bright  'Siogee's  waters  sleep, 
And  under  yet  remoter  skies, 

Our  warriors  roamed  o'er  all  the  land; 

On  this  great  mount  whereon  we  stand 

Have  prophets,  kings  and  heroes  stood, 

And  gazed  on  earth's  vast  solitude. 

No  fitter  place  beneath  the  sky 
Than  this  wild  home  in  upper  air, 
Hallowed  by  many  a  prophet's  prayer, 

To  meet  dire  vengeance,  or  to  die." 

One  moment  of  hate's  deadliest  strife, 
Like  tigers  grappling,  life  for  life, 
And  the  last  prophet  of  his  land 
Lay  crushed  beneath  his  conqueror's  hand. 
He  knew  the  fatal  grasp;  his  last, 
Despairing  glance  to  heaven  was  cast, 
As  if  to  see  with  dying  eyes 
The  gleaming  lakes  of  Paradise. 

The  victor  dragged  him  to  the  brow 

Of  the  dread  mount  whereon  they  stood ; 
Pointing  to  awful  depths  below, 
He  spoke:  "Deep  in  yon  gloomy  wood, 
The  gray  wolf  hungers  for  your  blood ; 
And  grim  death  waits— now,  murderer,  go." 

Down  to  a  yawning,  sunless  vale, 
O'er  frowning  battlements,  he  fell. 

Rang  from  his  lips  a  wild,  death-wail, 
And  barren  hills  gave  back  his  knell. 

A  fiery  star,  a  meteor  bright, 
Shining  athwart  the  sombre  sky, 


4%  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Hung  on  the  orient  brow  of  night. 

Each  star  looked  down  with  solemn  eye; 
Round  White-face  baleful  meteors  swung; 

Minden's  dark  brow  was  bathed  in  light, 
A  death-song  on  the  winds  was  sung, 

Ne'er  heard  till  that  portentous  night. 
Pale  lights  danced  over  lake  and  wood, 
The  chainless  Saco  blushed  in  blood, 
And  pitying  angels,  hovering  nigh, 
Walked  the  cold  heavens  with  mourning  eye. 


Son  of  Ira  Berry,  a  venerable  journalist  elsewhere  represented  in  this  work,  was  born 
in  Augusta, Dec.  21, 1833.  Mr.  Berry  is  a  successful  printer,  and  publisher  of  the  Masnn- 
ic  Token  at  Portland.  He  is  also  State  agent  of  the  Associated  Press,  and  has  filled 
various  offices  of  trust  for  several  publications.  His  wife  has  written  some  very  accep 
table  juvenile  operettas. 

THE  FAIRY  WEDDING. 

'T  was  the  middle  of  the  night, 

And  the  moon  was  silver  bright, 
And  the  owl  and  the  bat  were  skimming  through  the  air; 

I  saw  the  fairies  dancing, 

And  the  fairy  lights  a  glancing, 
And  'twas  down  in  the  meadow,  but  I  won't  tell  where. 

Round  they  danced,  and  in  the  middle 

Was  a  fairy  with  a  fiddle, 
And  he  sat  upon  a  daisy  which  was  swinging  in  the  air; 

And  I  saw  a  fairy  bride, 

With  her  goodman  by  her  side, 
And  'twas  down  in  the  meadow,  but  I  won't  tell  where. 

I  was  walking  there  with  Kate, 

And  we  knew  'twas  over-late, 
But  I  had  so  much  to  tell  her,  and  she  looked  so  bright  and  fair, 

We  peeped  among  the  clover, 

And  watched  till  it  was  over, 
And  'twas  down  in  the  meadow,  but  I  won't  tell  where. 


SUMMER  IS  COMING  TO  THE  NORTHLAND. 

The  air  is  full  of  music  and  the  dawn  is  come  at  last, 
The  spell  of  night  is  broken,  though  its  shadow  hath  not  passed; 
Hear  the  sweet  full-throated  chorus  through  the  open  casement  ring, 
Chanting  praises  to  the  morning  which  the  golden  sun  will  bring; 


HENRIETTA  GOULD  1WWE.  497 


And  their  song  reveals  a  secret,  though  we  guessed  it  well  before, 
But 't  is  sweet  to  hear  them  warble  and  repeat  it  o'er  and  o'er: 
Summer  is  coming  to  the  Northland. 

Lo !  the  air  is  full  of  sunshine  and  the  gladsome  day  has  come, 
In  the  presence  of  its  glory  the  warbling  choir  is  dumb; 
But  we  hear  a  gentle  rustling  and  a  murmur  in  the  trees, 
And  the  blossoms  shake  their  perfume  out  upon  the  balmy  breeze; 
They,  too,  have  learned  the  secret,  and  they  wonder  that  we  doubt, 
While  the  very  buds  are  bursting,  they  so  long  to  let  it  out: 
Summer  is  coming  to  the  Northland. 

She  is  coming  from  the  tropics  with  fresh  flowers  in  her  breast, 
The  gentle  winds  to  welcome  her  come  blowing  from  the  west; 
Her  smile  will  clothe  the  forest  and  the  fields  in  shining  green, 
And  flowers  will  rise  with  tender  eyes  to  gaze  upon  their  queen; 
The  bee  will  hum  its  welcome,  the  cricket  chirp  her  praise, 
And  the  hearts  of  all  be  merry  in  the  coming  golden  days : 
Summer  is  coming  to  the  Northland. 

THE  WORLD  IS  FAIR. 

The  robin  sat  in  the  apple-tree, 

Merrily  singing  "The  world  is  fair;" 
The  scholar  listened,  and  thus  said  he, 

"  The  world  is  weary  and  full  of  care." 
" Sing,"  said  the  bird,  "till  your  heart  is  light, 

Sing,  and  the  world  will  soon  look  bright." 
And  he  merrily  sung  in  the  apple-tree, 

"The  world  is  bright  and  fair  to  see." 

"Greed,"  said  the  scholar,  "rules  the  land;" 

"Sing,"  said  the  bird,  "'twill  soon  be  day;" 
"  The  poor  are  crushed  by  a  tyrant's  hand;" 

"Sing,'   said  the  bird,  "  'twill  pass  away, 
Sing,  for  the  night  is  almost  gone, 
Sing,  for  I  see  the  flush  of  morn." 

And  he  merrily  sung  in  the  apple-tree, 

"  The  world  is  bright  and  fair  to  see." 


l§tnrittti\  (fjonld 


Mrs.  H.  G.  Rowe  was  born  in  East  Corinth,  in  1834,  and  lived  there  until  her  marriage, 
in  185G.  to  ,1.  Swett  Howe,  of  Bangor,  in  which  city  f^he  has  lived  ever  since.  Mrs.  Kowe 
has  contributed  for  the  last  thirty  years  to  many  of  the  principal  magazines  and  news 
papers,  her  work  bfing  principally  in  the  story  line,  with  now  and  then  a  poem.  She  has 
written  largely  for  the  J'orfltmd  Transcript,  Youth's  Companion,  Wide  An  ukc,  Gohlcn 
Hours,  Art  Mar/ozine.  f>nd  other  publications.  She  considers  her  ballad  writings  the 
best  of  her  poetical  work,  and  we  give  two  in  this  vein  which  met  with  special  public 
favor. 


498  TIIK  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  RELIEF  OF  IIENNEBOX. 

"Ride  fast  and  far,  my  courier  brave, 
Till  the  dew  thy  courser's  fetlocks  lave, 

In  the  land  of  the  setting  sun, 
And  say  to  England's  Edward  bold, 
The  wife  and  son  of  his  comrade  old 

Lie  leaguered  in  Hennebon." 

Then  the  lady  looked  from  her  turret  gray 
O'er  the  foeman,  mustered  in  steel  array, 

'ISTeath  the  walls  of  her  castle  home; 
And  she  thought  of  her  lord  in  captive  bands, 
Of  her  son,  the  heir  of  his  name  and  lands, 

An  exile  doomed  to  roam. 

And  her  heart  swelled  high  with  love  and  pride, 
As  forth  with  her  noble  boy  by  her  side 

She  passed  to  the  castle-wall; 
In  her  train,  her  maidens  fair  and  bright, 
In  silks  and  jewels  richly  dight, 

Followed  in  silence  all. 

The  archer  stood  with  bow  unstrung, 

The  oath  was  checked  on  the  soldier's  tongue, 

As  he  listened  with  forehead  bare; 
And  their  captain  doffed  his  plumed  crest, 
While  he  longed  to  lay  his  lance  in  rest 

For  God  and  his  ladye  fair. 

"Brave  men  and  true — my  brothers  all!" 
Her  voice  rang  out  like  a  trumpet  call, 

As  each  soldier  grasped  his  brand. 
"  The  foe  besets  us  sore  without; 
Though  we've  beat  them  in  many  a  bloody  bout, 

Yet  now  beleaguered  we  stand. 

"  I  know  that  famine  makes  brave  men  shrink 
Who  would  stand  undaunted  on  danger's  brink, 

But  I  pray  you  hear  my  word : 
When  women  and  babes  its  pangs  can  bear, 
Shall  steel-clad  men  refuse  to  share 

Alike  with  their  sovereign  lord  ?'' 

Then  the  princely  boy  spake  bold  and  high, 
With  the  lire  of  his  race  in  his  clear  blue  eye, 

Though  his  childish  face  was  wan; 
"I  will  live  or  die  on  a  single  crust, 
Ere  the  home  of  my  fathers  be  laid  in  dust 

By  the  foes  of  Hennebon." 


HENRIETTA  GOULD  EOWE.  495) 


And  the  watchful  foemen  marshaled  without 
Wondered  to  hear  the  joyous  shout, 

The  loud,  triumphant  cry ; 

And  their  brows  grow  dark  as  they  mark  the  band 
Of  maidens  that  close  by  the  rampart  stand 

Laughing  in  mockery. 

Brave  heart  of  soldier,  of  dame  and  child, 
Rejoice!  for  over  the  ocean  wild 

Brave  Edward's  sail  is  seen; 
And  the  foe  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 
Like  mimic  boats  before  the  tide 

That  sweeps  the  white  beach  clean. 

.There's  wassail  and  joy  in  those  grand  old  halls, 
And  many  a  banner  drapes  their  walls 

From  the  flying  foemen  won; 
And  there,  with  music  and  mirth  and  light, 
The  English  king  dubs  lord  and  knight 

The  heir  of  Hennebon. 


THE  SWEDISH  WIFE. 

In  the  State  House  at  Augusta,  Me.,  is  a  bunch  of  cedar  shingles  made  by  a  Swedish 
woman  the  wife  of  one  of  the  earliest  settlers  of  New  Sweden,  who,  with  her  husband 
sick  and  a  family  of  little  ones  dependent  upon  her,  made  with  her  own  hands  these 
shingles,  and  carried  them  eight  miles  upon  her  back  to  the  town  of  Caribou,  where  she 
exchanged  them  for  provisions  for  her  family. 

The  morning  sun  shines  bright  and  clear, 
Clear  and  cold,  for  winter  is  near,— 

Winter,  the  chill  and  dread: 
And  the  fire  burns  bright  in  the  exile's  home, 
With  fagot  of  fir  from  the  mountain's  dome, 

While  the  children  clamor  for  bread. 

Against  the  wall  stands  the  idle  wheel, 
Unfinished  the  thread  upon  the  spindle  and  reel, 

The  empty  cards  are  crost; 
But  nigh  to  the  hearthstone  sits  the  wife, 
With  cleaver  and  mallet,— so  brave  and  so  blithe, 

She  fears  not  famine  or  frost. 

Fair  and  soft  are  her  braided  locks, 

And  the  light  in  her  blue  eye  merrily  mocks 

The  shadow  of  want  and  fear, 
As  deftly,  with  fingers  supple  and  strong, 
She  draws  the  glittering  shave  along, 

O'er  the  slab  of  cedar  near. 


500  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Neatly  and  close  are  the  shingles  laid, 
Bound  in  a  bunch, — then,  undismayed, 

The  Swedish  wife  uprose: 
"Be  patient,  my  darlings,"  she  blithely  said, 
"  I  go  to  the  town,  and  you  shall  have  bread, 

Ere  the  day  has  reached  its  close." 

Eight  miles  she  trudged— 'twas  a  weary  way; 
The  road  was  rough,  the  sky  grew  gray 

With  the  snow  that  sifted  down; 
Bent  were  her  shoulders  beneath  their  load, 
But  high  was  her  heart,  for  love  was  the  goad 

That  urged  her  on  to  the  town. 

Ere  the  sun  went  down  was  her  promise  kept, 
The  little  ones  feasted  before  they  slept; 

While  the  father,  sick  in  bed, 
Prayed  softly,  with  tears  and  murmurs  low, 
That  his  household  darlings  might  never  know 

A  lack  of  their  daily  bread. 


This  lady  was  born  in  the  town  of  Norridgewock,  August  16,  1834.  Her  last  known 
residence  was  at  Bangor,  aud  she  is  represented  in  "  The  Native  Poets  of  Maine  "  oub- 
hshed  in  that  city  in  1854. 

THE  STORM  AXD  THE  RAINBOW. 

Did  the  angels  hang  it  out,  mother, 

The  glorious  bow  I  see  ? 
Have  the  spirits  such  a  banner 

As  now  is  shown  to  me  ? 
It  was  reached  clown  from  heaven, 

Dear  mother,  I  cannot  doubt; 
So  tell  your  own  dear  Willie — 

Did  the  angels  hang  it  out  ? 

The  rain  fell  down  in  torrents — 
The  clouds  were  black  as  night— 

But  soon  the  armies  of  the  storm 
Were  beat  and  put  to  flight. 

They  were  vanquished  by  the  angels, 
And  when  they  saw  their  rout, 

There  came  the  flag  of  victory- 
Did  the  angels  hang  it  out  ? 


SUSAN  M.    W.  Til  WING.  501 


I  have  heard  of  wars  in  heaven — 
Now  I  know  that  they  have  fought — 

I  saw  the  flashing  of  their  spears, 
And  their  glances— did  I  not  ? 

Their  chariots  rolled  through  heaven, 
And  I  heard  the  demons  shout — 

And  then  I  saw  the  flay  of  peace- 
Did  the  angels  hang  it  out  ? 

'Tis  the  bow  of  promise,  mother — 
I  know  by  God  'twas  given, 

Emblem  of  peace  and  harmony, 
Between  mankind  and  heaven ! 

And  when  the  storm-cloud  passed  away 
With  the  last  thunder  shout, 

And  this  bright  bow  appeared  in  heaven- 
Did  the  angels  hang  it  out  ? 


J§jis<w 


Mrs.  Susan  M.  W.  Thwing,  wife  of  Professor  Thwing,  daughter  of  the  late  Capt. 
Edward  Waite  of  Portland.  Bom  in  Portland,  Oct.  15,  183i.  Attended  a  private  school; 
went  through  the  course  at  Mt.  Holyoke  Seminary,  and  graduated  1855;  was  teacher 
there  two  years  in  Latin  and  astronomy,  and  afterwards  in  Portland  High  School; 
married  Dec.  28, 1859;  seven  sons  and  three  daughters  have  been  born;  the  eldest  son  is  a 
surgeon  in  a  hospital  in  New  York,  but  expects  to  be  a  medical  missionary  abroad,  and 
the  youngest,  a  student  of  New  York  University,  is  with  Dr.  Kerr  of  the  Presbyterian 
Hospital,  Canton,  and  aiding  in  missionary  work.  Mrs.  Thwing  also  accompanied  him, 
October,  1887,  intending  to  spend  some  months  in  China  to  perfect  her  knowledge  of  the 
language  and  the  people,  as  she  has  been  for  some  time  devoting  herself  to  work  among 
the  Chinese  of  Brooklyn. 


MY  PRAYER. 

O  Thou  celestial  source  of  wisdom's  light! 
Touch  my  sin-darkened  eyes  and  give  them  sight; 
Chase  all  the  mists  away  and  to  my  spirit  say : 
"Let  there  be  light!*' 

That  I  with  clearer  view  may  see  and  know 
All  tliou  wouldst  have  me  do  and  be  below; 
And  with  a  swifter  pace  into  Thy  righteousness 
May  daily  grow. 

Into  my  willing  hands  may  work  be  given, 
Let  service  here  make  sweet  the  rest  of  heaven; 
Toiling  throughout  the  day,  down  at  Thy  feet  to  lay 
Some  sheaves  at  even. 

And  if  Thy  perfect  will  to  me  assign 
Sorrow,  or  pain,  or  loss,  the  part  be  mine 
Meekly  to  bear  the  cross ;  purging  out  all  my  dross, 
My  soul  refine. 


602  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thus  pressing  upward  still  the  heavenly  steep, 
Homeward  my  weary  feet  eager  would  leap! 
My  longing,  panting  soul  stretches  to  Thee  its  goal, 
Glory  to  reap ! 


MY  DWELLING-PLACE. 

.DEUT.    XXXIII.    12. 

O  happy,  happy  dwelling,  close  by  Jehovah's  side! 
O  peace  beyond  our  telling,  under  his  wings  to  hide ! 
There  safe,  by  faith  abiding,  no  foe  has  power  to  harm, 
And  in  his  love  confiding,  no  terror  may  alarm. 

His  loved  ones  dwell  securely;  with  sheltering  wing  outspread 
He  will  protect  them  surely;  no  evil  they  need  dread: 
Such  sweet,  such  blessed  resting,  each  longing  satisfied ! 
No  evil  thing  molesting,  nor  any  good  denied. 

"All  the  day  long"  he'll  cover,  and  guard  from  every  ill; 
The  Holy  Dove  shall  hover  o'er  them  at  evening  still: 
As  gentle  dew  distilling,  the  promise  of  these  words, 
The  heart  with  joy  o'erfilling,  comfort  and  strength  affords. 

A  fount  of  joy  upspringing  through  the  whole  spirit  Mows; 
How  can  the  soul  cease  singing,  exultant  as  she  goes  ? 
With  rapturous  praise  repeating  her  glorious  Saviour's  name, 
Her  pjean  shout  of  greeting  to  celebrate  his  fame. 

Strong  on  his  strength  relying,  they  cope  with  every  foe ; 
And  in  his  might  undying,  a  constant  victory  know ; 
Till,  hymning  the  sweet  story,  they  "lay  their  honors  down" 
At  His  dear  feet  in  glory,  and  wear  the  victor's  crown. 


ArvillaB.  E.  Gardner  was  born  in  Chesterville,  Me.,  (Franklin  County)  Dec.  27,  1834. 
Removed  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  October,  1851,  and  was  married  to  Almon  B.  Gardner,  (born 
in  Nelson,  N.  H.)  Aug.  26,  1857.  She  has  written  magazine  articles,  and  for  the  local 
press.  In  March.  1870,  at  a  meeting  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Maine,  she  furnished 
a  poem  (in  response  to  a  toast)  which  was  considered  meritorious.  A  few  years  since,  on 
a  visit  to  the  old  home  in  Chesterville,  she  found  the  ancient  house  (built  by  her  grandfa 
ther,  and  occupied  for  nearly  a  century)  deserted.  The  hours  spent  beneath  the  old  roof 
furnished  inspiration  for  the  poem  which  was  afterward  printed  in  'Die  Farmington 
Chronicle. 

THE  OLD  MANSION. 

It  stands  alone,  no  footsteps  linger  here ; 
These  silent  rooms  no  sunny  faces  greet, 


AEVILLA  B.  EATON  GARDNER  503 


With  floors  uncovered,  and   with  walls  so  drear, 

Dust  gathers  thickly  on  the  window-seat. 
The  sun  peeps  through  the  cobweb-curtained  pane — 
No  living  tenant  seeks  this  home  again. 

It  stands  alone !  what  spirits  of  the  past 

Walk  through  these  low-ceiled  rooms,  at  shade  of  eve, 
The  pattering  little  feet  grown  still  at  last, 

And  o'er  the  golden  heads  what  memories  weave! 
To-night,  to-night — a  solemn  silence  falls, 
Deep  in  the  shadow  of  these  old  gray  walls. 

A  towering  tree  leans  o'er  the  old  brown  eves, 

An  air  of  watchfulness  is  with  it  still; 
The  moonlight  falls  amid  the  shining  leaves, 

And  glimmers  on  the  mossy  window-sill. 
Behind,  the  pathway  to  the  orchard  leads, 
And  flowering  shrubs  peep  through  the  tangled  weeds. 

Our  footsteps  sound  like  echoes  from  the  past — 

A  tale  of  busy  life  that  here  has  been — 
Adown  the  garden  walk  so  thick  o'ercast 

With  flowers,  and  thorns  that  struggle  in  between. 
Can  it  be  here  that  roses  ever  bloomed, 
And  with  their  fragrance  all  the  air  perfumed  ? 

We  pause,  and  think  of  all  the  busy  life 
That  once  broke  up  the  dreary  silence  here; 

Then  passing  out,  and  mingling  with  the  strife 
Amid  the  multitude,  grown  hard  and  sere. 

From  this  bright  homestead  birth  and  death  are  wed, 

Death  claims  the  golden  and  the  hoary  head. 

What  spirits  from  the  slumbering  past  arise, 
Light  forms  float  by — that  long  since  turned  to  dust — 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  beauty's  flashing  eyes, 
And  hearts  that  beat  beneath  the  satin  bust. 

Death  springs  to  life,  as  with  a  magic  wand 

I  part  the  curtain  with  my  outstretched  hand. 

Ah !  what  a  crowd  of  recollections  come, — 
Turn  back,  ye  wheels  of  time,  the  past  explore, — 

The  chain  is  linked  with  memories  so  strong, 
I  dream  amid  the  scenes  that  are  no  more. 

The  hour  o'er  me  a  witching  spell  has  cast, 

Fain  would  I  pierce  the  shadows  of  the  past. 


504  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Here  is  a  semblance  of  the  joys  that  fled 

And  mocked  me  with  their  glitter  long  ago; 
Here  friends— who  long  have  slumbered  with  the  dead, 

Who  led  my  steps  and  language  taught  to  flow- 
Bright  as  the  light  falls  from  the  sunset  sky, 
Loved  ones  return  to  me:  Tliey  never  die. 

Alas!  our  day-dreams  and  our  visions  fade; 

We  wake  to  find — for  we  are  mortal  still — 
The  fancy  flown.     Death  has  been  here  and  laid 

His  signet  on  the  brows  that  grew  so  chill. 
Deserted  mansion!  winds  and  tempests  cry, 
Echo  alone  can  to  thy  wail  reply. 

Across  this  time-worn  threshold  little  feet 

Went  in  and  out,  so  many  years  ago, 
And  baby  voices:  accents  pure  and  sweet, — 

'Tis  sad  that  passing  years  should  change  us  so. 
Age  warps  the  pliant  nature,— low  and  deep 
Are  childish  memories  we  love  to  keep. 

Hinder  me  not.     I  linger  and  would  stay 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  old  home  room— 
Where'er  I  turn  a  halo  lights  the  way; 

I  stand  alone  amid  the  gathering  gloom, 
The  past  and  present  thick  with  memories  teem, 
The  future,  soon  that  too  will  be  a  dream. 

These  silent  rooms  no  story  speak  to  you, 
These  spirit  friends  can  never  meet  your  gaze. 

Fain  would  I  linger— wander  through  and  through 
This  mansion  dark— so  bright  in  other  days. 

Its  echoes  are  to  you  no  welcome  tone, 

Its  message  is  for  me,  and  me  alone. 


AN  OLD  LETTER. 

Where  is  the  hand  that  traced  these  lines  ? 

'Tis  mould'ring  back  to  mother  earth! 
Years,  years  have  gone,  yet  here  to-night 

My  tears  pay  tribute  to  thy  worth. 
Long  since  from  earth  thy  spirit  loosed, 

And  o'er  thy  home  the  willows  wave, 
And  flowers,  placed  by  affection's  hand, 

Twelve  years  have  blossomed  o'er  thy  grave. 


BOADICEA  ALDR1CH  THOMPSON  DINSMORE.  COS 


Louise!  my  heart  is  true  to  thee — 

My  best  beloved,  my  early  friend  I 
To-night  I  seem  to  see  thy  face, 

As  o'er  this  tear-stained  sheet  I  bend. 
'T  is  here  thy  hand  my  name  has  traced, 

And  coupled  it  with  thine  so  dear; — 
Our  early  love  is  ne'er  erased; 

O'er  this  I  drop  affection's  tear. 

O  happy  thought !     The  grave  brings  rest 

To  weary  travelers  of  the  earth! 
The  spirit  seeks  among  the  blest 

A  mansion-house  of  priceless  worth. 
There  will  the  friendship  here  begun, 

Which  death  and  parting  ne'er  can  sever, 
Spring  up  anew,  and  blossom  forth 

In  flowers  whose  fragrance  lasts  forever. 


^Idrich  Common  $insmore. 


. 

Lemuel  F.  Diiismore,  and I  res  ded 
May  3'  ^  Since  jhen  she  has 


A  BRIDGE  OF  FAITH. 

FOK   FEET   OF    FAITH. 

Boyond  a  chasm  where  deep  waters  move, 
There  lies  a  realm  of  all-exhaustless  love, 
Toward  which  our  eyes,  uplifted  clear,  may  scan 
A  power  that  works  its  highest  good  for  man. 

The  burning  bush,  the  Sinai's  mountain  flame, 
The  promise  to  the  prophet  in  His  name, 
The  wonders  written  out  in  rock  and  tree, 
In  rod,  and  parted  waters  of  the  sea, 

In  mighty  deeds  of  faith  from  Enoch  down, 
A  brilliant  vista,  till  at  length  its  crown 
O'er- topping  all,  their  meaning  clear  revealed, 
As  in  Emanuel  our  hopes  are  sealed. 

Behold  him  now  approach  the  hither  side, 
Upon  that  bridge  of  faith,  whose  arches  wide 
Defy  life's  storms,  as,  builded  stone  by  stone, 
The  firm  foundation  hath  in  structure  grown. 

34 


500  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Lo !  prophets  and  apostles,  mighty  names  I 

And  last  of  all  the  preacher  Him  proclaims, 

"The  Lamb  of  God,"  whom  star,  and  voice,  and  dove, 

Had  heralded  with  signs  of  dawning  love. 

And  this  sufficeth  all  our  needs  to  meet! 
Love  flavored  thus,  the  teaching  seems,  and  sweet 
With  heavenly  power,  while  promising  a  rest 
To  souls  o'erburdened,  and  with  sorrows  pressed. 

Climb  hither,  then!  above  the  troubled  tide 
Upon  that  bridge  of  faith  with  arches  wide, 
For  hearts  of  faith  its  pillars  will  descry, 
With  firm  foundation  reaching  to  the  sky. 


A  LIFE  THAT  HATH*NO  END. 

As  from  some  old  cathedral  turret  rings 

A  solemn  warning,  or  a  call  to  prayer, 
So,  far  above  all  earthly  sounds  of  strife, 

Eternity's  great  bell-tones  on  the  air 
King  out  the  story  of  an  endless  life. 

In  floating,  swelling  cadences  it  falls, 
Like  regal  music  heard  from  palace  walls ; 

Now,  in  the  spirit's  hush,  its  silver-clear 
And  solemn  tones  are  heard  'mid  ocean's  roar, 

The  thunders  echo  it— while  sweetly  near, 
In  Nature's  silences,  for  evermore 
It  gives  life  meanings  all  unlearned  before. 

An  endless  life !    Ah,  what  a  mighty  power ! 

Through  this,  grim  Death,  the  conqueror— is  slain; 

The  glorious  tidings  sound  through  earth's  domain! 
Triumphant  from  each  living  temple-tower 
Ring  out  the  news!  "Your  dead  shall  live  again, 

For  1  am  He  that  liveth  and  was  dead 
And  am  alive  for  evermore,  Amen." 

When  close  upon  the  shadows  of  Death's  wall 
The  wanderer's  feet  pause,  trembling,  in  this  sphere 

He  sees  the  temple-dome  outshine,  whence  all 
Along  his  way  this  song  rang  out  in  cheer— 
"A  life  that  hath  no  end,  no  end,  no  end!" 


JOHN  C.  ROGERS.  507 

And  straightly  he  grows  calm:  Do  fears  appall  ? 
Disarmed  of  terror,  and  with  vision  clear, 

He  sees  the  Master  there.     Like  as  a  gate, 
A  lowly  wicket-gate  does  death  now  seem — 

An  entrance  only  to  that  blessed  state 
Where  mysteries  strange,  and  questions  why,  await 
Their  royal  answer  in  that  hour  supreme. 

O  bell,  the  golden-tongued,  ring  011!  ring  on 

Forgiveness  to  repentant  souls  sincere ! 
For  timid  ones,  in  silver  tones  chime  on 

Thy  sweet  assurances  and  pledges  clear ! 
To  sin,  with  fearful  iron  tongue,  clang  on ! 

Clang  on !  till  all  its  mountains  quake  with  fear. 


J.  C.  "Rogers,  M.  D.,  was  born  March  23,  1835,  and  spent  his  early  days  in  Perry,  where 
his  father  dwelt  and  cultivated  a  small  farm.  After  being  taught  the  alphabet,  he 
learned  to  read  from  an  old  song-book,  and  at  the  age  of  eleven  he  first  attended  the  dis 
trict  schools.  His  father,  being  poor,  needed  his  labor,  consequently  the  time  spent  in 
the  common  schools  was  very  limited,  being  in  all  only  about  nine  months.  In  the  fall 
of  1835,  he  borrowed  sufficient  money  to  enable  him  to  attend  a  term  at  Washington 
Academy,  which  was  at  that  time  under  the  instruction  of  J.  C.  Caldwell.  After  that  he 
taught  school  and  fitted  for  college  at  Yarmouth  Academy,  under  the  tuition  of  A.  L. 
Randall.  He  entered  Waterville  College  in  18(30,  and  commenced  the  study  of  medicine 
the  next  year,  graduating  at  Harvard  in  the  class  of  1803-4.  He  received  a  commission 
as  Assistant  Surgeon  in  one  of  the  Massachusetts  regiments,  and  at  the  close  of  the  war 
commenced  the  practice  of  medicine  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  In  the  spring  of  18G6,  he 
returned  to  Pembroke,  Me.,  where  he  has  since  resided,  practicing  his  profession  and 
writing  an  occasional  poem  for  the  Eastport  Sentinel  and  the  Grand  Army  boys.  Dr. 
Rogers  reads  Latin,  Greek,  French  and  German,  and  is  a  great  lover  of  poetry.  His  busy 
professional  life  has  prevented  him  from  giving  much  time  to  writing. 


"THE  EVENING  ECHO." 
Have  you  heard  "the  Evening  Echo." 

In  the  twilight  pale  and  wan, 
As  it  peals  along  the  waters 

Of  the  pensive  Pemnaquan  ? 
Have  you  heard  the  thrilling  music, 

As  it  rolls  adown  the  stream, 
Waking  all  the  woods  and  fountains 

From  their  deep  and  silent  dream  ? 

O  it  gives  the  heart  new  impulse, 

As  it  strikes  the  sentient  wire; 
And  it  fills  the  soul  with  rapture, 

Ever  higher,  higher,  higher ! 
And  its  music,  soft  and  pensive, 

Steals  in  rapture  on  the  soul, 
Like  the  voice  of  some  sweet  seraph 

Charming  all  within  control. 


508  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  it  fills  the  soul,  ecstatic, 

With  a  flood  of  fond  delight; 
And  the  heart  receives  the  impulse 

Of  the  throbbing  of  its  might. 
O  it  gives  to  life  new  being, 

And  it  wakes  to  fond  desire; 
Like  the  strain  of  some  sweet  lyre 

Wafts  the  spirit  higher,  higher! 

Tell  me  not  of  "  Memnon's  statue," 

And  its  symphony  of  sound ; 
When  the  morning  sun,  resplendent, 

Wakes  to  music  all  around; 
For  within  "the  Evening  Echo" 

Dwells  a  charm  more  sweet  arid  rare, 
That  enraptures  all  the  senses, 

While  it  wakes  the  ambient  air. 


A  LEGEXD  OF  RED  ISLAND. 

There 's  a  rock  in  the  Cobscook,  they  call  it  Red  Isle, 
And  the  blue  wavelets  curl  and  break  at  its  feet 
Like  the  ripples  that  curl  when  a  maiden  doth  smile, 
'Neath.  the  arch  of  the  cheeks  where  the  rosy;lips  meet. 

And  there,  when  the  tempest  sweeps  fierce  o'er  the  hill, 
And  the  hail  and  the  winds  lash  the  waves  into  spray, 
The  mermaid's  sweet  voice,  all  plaintive  and  shrill, 
Is  heard  o'er  the  waters  as  she  sings  her  wild  lay. 

And  there,  when  the  sunbeams  fall  bright  on  the  bay, 
And  the  sea,  like  a  mirror,  reflects  the  blue  sky, 
Above  and  around  it  the  sea  gulls  do  play, 
And  the  loon  and  the  osprey  high  o'er  it  do  fly. 

And  the  divers  ne'er  dive  near  its  steep,  rocky  shore, 
And  the  sea-birds  ne'er  light  on  its  bleak,  mossy  crest — 
But  around  and  above  it  they  constantly  soar, 
And  far  from  its  shelter  they  always  do  rest. 

'T  was  there  Capt.  Kidd,  when  he  roamed  the'broad  sea, 
And  preyed  on  the  helpless  that  fell  in  his  way, 
Concealed  his  rich  treasures,  deep  down  'neath  a  tree, 
That  grew  'mong  the  shrubs  where  the  flinder-mice  play. 

But  ere  he  enclosed  it  within  the  dark  ground, 
A  maiden,  a  captive  most  comely  and  fair, 
He  led  from  his  ship  to  the  newly-made  mound, 
And  on  it  compelled  her  to  kneel  and  to  swear, 


JOHN  C.  ROGEKS.  509 


That  a  guard  o'er  the  treasures  she  'd  ever  prove  true, 
That  none  might  molest  them  or  steal  them  away; 
Till  the  sea  ceased  to  mirror  the  sky  deep  and  blue, 
And  the  waves  on  the  rocks  ceased  to  dash  into  spray; 

That  her  spirit  should  guard,  both  by  day  and  by  night, 
The  treasures  he  gave  her  to  guard  and  to  keep, 
So  long  as  the  sun  o'er  the  bay  sheds  its  light, 
And  the  moon  and  the  stars  shine  over  the  deep. 

And  she  shrieked  and  she  trembled  as  she  knelt  on  the  mound, 
And  she  prayed  and  she  wept  and  for  mercy  implored ; 
But  the  hearts  of  the  pirates  who  stood  there  around 
Were  as  deaf  to  her  cries  as  the  breakers  that  roared. 

But  the  moon  from  the  scene  hid  her  face  in  a  cloud, 
And  the  cloud  dropped  a  tear  on  the  maiden's  pale  cheek, 
As  with  hands  wild  extended,  she  repeated  aloud 
The  words  of  the  oath  that  the  pirate  did  speak. 

Then  kissing  her  fondly  they  struck  off  her  head, 
And  hied  to  the  ship  that  lay  moored  in  the  bay; 
And,  crowding  all  canvas,  from  the  place  sadly  sped 
O'er  the  ocean  to  wander  in  search  of  more  prey. 

So  since,  in  the  moonlight  on  that  Isle  sad  and  lone, 
Can  be  seen  a  fair  maiden,  each  night  of  the  year, 
A-kneeling  and  watching,  as  cold  as  a  stone, 
While  the  cloud  just  at  twelve  on  her  face  drops  a  tear. 

There 's  a  shriek  and  a  gleam,  and  her  head  rolls  away, 
Down,  down  in  a  cave,  where  the  wild  billows  roar; 
And  the  men  o'er  the  mound  then  her  cold  body  lay, 
And  the  blood  runs  afresh  down  the  rocks  of  the  shore. 

Then  a  ship 's  seen  to  crowd  all  her  canvas  for  sea, 
And  the  winds  always  favor  her  voyage  along; 
While  the  sailors  see.m  eager  to  crowd  to  the  lee, 
And  gaze  on  that  Isle  as  they  chant  a  low  song. 

And  there,  on  the  mound,  when  the  ship's  out  of  sight, 
May  be  seen  the  fair  maiden,  dejected,  forlorn, 
A-gazing  a-seaward,  through  the  mist  of  the  night, 
And  weeping  and  sighing  until  it  is  morn. 

And  the  loon  laughs  a-mocking  her  deep  plaint  of  woe, 
As  she  hears  her  sad  meanings  and  sighs  o'er  the  deep; 
And  the  boatmen,  affrighted,  in  the  night  never  go 
Near  that  Isle  in  its  weirdness,  but  far  from  it  keep. 


510  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


arren  j}eckivit1(. 


This  Avriter  Avas  born  in  Lubec,  Me.,  March  31,  1835.  His  parents  came  to  Hantsport, 
K.  S.  where  his  childhood  Avas  spent,  in  1838.  He  Avas  essentially,  as  he  esteemed  him 
self,  a  citizen  of  the  world,  Avith  a  broad  and  catholic  spirit— 

"  To  no  country,  to  no  race  confined, 
His  home,  the  Avorld;  his  brethren,  all  mankind." 

Literary  ambition  and  capacity  awoke  early  within  him:  and  his  first  poem,  "The  Ice 
berg,"  written  at  fourteen  years  of  age,  deserves  to  have  been  preserved.  Ihe  only 
stanza  extant  is  here  given:— 

"  Ah,  then,  Avith  dismay  o'er  that  blood-chilling  scene, 
Saw  he  Azrael's  glare  in  the  lightning's  red  sheen- 
Saw  a  shroud  spreading  grim  in  each  white-crested  surge, 
While  the  Avild  Avinds  around  him  Avere  chanting  his  dirge. 

He  left  school  at  sixteen,  -  to  follow  the  sea,"  and  soon  row  to  the^osHion  o^  ™te  on 

the  shit 

ofncersl 

eated  to  the  same  paper    a  detailed    explanati __. 

Atlantic  cable,  which  subiect  was  then  agitating  the  world;  giving  suggestions  as  1 
proper  principles  upon  which  to  construct  a  successful  one  \\hether  the  company 
appropriated  his  idea  cannot  now  be  known;  but  the  cable  of  18C6  was  built  in  accord 
ance  with  the  principles  by  him  designated.  In  1854  he  married  Susan  Khyce  Pnelps— they 
beiii"  cousins.  It  Avas  a  rare  union  of  congenial  minds.  He  soon  left  the  Atlantic  trade, 
and  In  command  of  the  ship  ••  Virginia,"  sailed  from  Liverpool,  Eng..  for  Hong  Kong, 
China.  He  spent  three  years  in  the  East  Indian  trade;  then,  returning  to  his  family, 
spent  the  few  remaining  years  of  his  life  in  study  and  literary  work  He  died  Feb.  21, 
1877.  He  left  an  unpublished  work  on  China,  entitled,  "  Foh-Kee  and  1  an-Qui. 


SEVEN  YEARS  PAST. 

Seven  years  flown  Hay  alone  on  an  Indian  isle's  far  verge, 
And  watched  the  sweep,  in  the  cohorts  deep,  of  the  broad  Pacific  surge, 
Break  on  the  strand  of  pearly  sand— white  foot  of  the  green-robed  isle! 
While  the  sun  sank  low,  and  the  night  stole  slow  over  sea  with  her  dusky 
smile. 

Out  from  the  west  Winaina  to  rest,  trailed  the  song-bird's  Wanina  hymn; 

While  cricketings  shrill,  with  gurgle  of  rill,  crept  up  with  the  twilight 
dim; 

To  the  whispering  breeze  sighed  back  the  trees— but  their  sleepy  blos 
soms  furled, 

While  drowsily  fell  like  a  Lethean  spell  the  breath  of  the  resting  world. 

And  a  music  new  with  the  falling  dew  through  the  lender  choral  wreathes ; 
The  soundless  rhyme,  the  tongueless  chime,  each  tiny  flower-bell  breathes ; 
And  air  and  earth  alike  give  birth  to  a  multifold  melody's  tone, 
That  lulls  the  soul  in  charmed  control,  as  I  muse  on  the  sward  alone. 

Each  scintillant  line,  in  unison  fine,  with  the  tranquil  chant  sublime, 
In  the  glittering  march  up  the  glorified  arch  the  stars  in  their  courses 
climb; 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  511 


Yet  a  last  faint  light  thwart  the  van  of  night  to  the  pearly  beach  still 

clings, 
Where  the  shaky  surge  with  a  booming  dirge  its  floods  on  the  shell-drift 

flings. 

Ah!  terrible  tolls  of  resurgent  rolls  hurled  up  from  the  sounding  sea! 
Ye  crowd  from  mine  ear  the  harmonies  clear  of  the  multifold  melody! 
But  I  hear  complain  with  a  wail  of  pain  all  the  beautiful  nautili— 
For  a  myriad  fleet,  'in  each  pitiless  beat,  are  crunched  on  the  strand — and 
die. 

O  types  so  fair,  what  hope  is  there?— Are  there  none  to  mourn  but  I 
For  each  beautiful  form,  with  its  rose-tints  warm,  that  yet  will  not  wholly 

die? 
Will  the  monster  whorl  of  the  surf  still  curl  and  smite  on  each  fragile 

crust  ? — 
Will  destiny's  mill  keep  grinding  it  still,  till  the  stars  know  it  not  from 

dust? 

Is  it  only  a  play  ?— and  by  night  alway  do  yon  stars  in  the  circles  sit; 
Looking  down— ever  down,  with  never  a  frown!     (Who  are  those  that 

glare  from  the  pit  ?) 
With  never  a  frown— not  a  thumb  turned  down  one  atom  to  save  from 

fate! 
Are  they  not  at  last,  after  ages  past,  of  the  spectacle  satiate  ? 

Ah !  knowing  no  fear,  unwitting  they  steer,  to  wreck  in  a  common  doom ! 
Thus  widens  the  reach  of  the  broadening  beach,  and  for  myriads  more 

makes  room : — 
More  myriads  sail  with  the  changeless  gale,  on  which  dim  destiny  dwells. 


Seven  years  past! — I  have  read — at  last — what  the  merciless  lesson  tells. 
Looks  over  the  seas  strong  Herakles  still  bearing  the  club  of  might; 
Stern  Algehar,  with  many  a  star,  aligning  his  sword  of  light; 
Rears  Perseus,  higher  that  blade  of  fire,  once  potent  the  wrong  to  right; 
Do  they  know  full  well  that  each  foam-born  shell  is  an  Aphrodite  bright  ? 


jjarritt  Ifmq//  jfyofford. 

This  popular  magazinest  is  a  native  of  Calais,  where  she  was  born  April  3,  1835.  At 
th«  age  of  fourteen  she  became  a  pupil  in  the  Putnam  High  School  at  Newburyport, 
Mass.,  and  after  graduating  from  this  institution  she  attended  the  old  Pinkerton  Acad 
emy  in  Derry  N.  K.  ami  there  closed  her  school-life.  At  the  age  of  thirty,  she  was 
married  to  the  Hon.  Richard  S.  Spofford,  himself  a  poet,  and  son  of  one  .of  Newbury- 
port's  most  noted  physicians.  Their  home  is  at  I>eer  Island,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
places  in  the  region  of  the  Merrimac.  Mrs.  Spoll'ord's  literary  career  began  with  the 


512  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


publication  of  a  delightful  story,  entitled  "  In  a  Cellar,"  originally  printed  in  the  Atlan 
tic  Monthly.  The  compiler  of  this  work,  himself  a  native  of  Newburyport,  well  remem 
bers  with  what  keen  pleasure  he  first  perused  this  tale  the  morning  it  appeared  in  the 
Daily  Herald  of  that  city.  Mrs.  Spofford's  first  hook  was  called  "  Sir  Rohan's  Ghost." 
As  a  ^iter,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  she  has  enriched  the  pages  of  the  At/antic,  Har 
per's,  and  other  leading  publications  for  many  years.  A  volume  of  her  poems  'under 
the  imprint  of  Messrs.  Uoughton,  Miflftin  &  Co.,  appeared  is  1882.  It  has  been  said  that 
a  Concord  writer  in  quoting  one  of  Mrs.  SpolTonf  s  charming  poems,  referred  to  her  as 
The  American  Sappho."  In  the  course  of  her  literary  career  she  has  published  ten  vol 
umes  of  prose  and  poetry. 


INSIDE  PLUM  ISLAND. 

We  floated  in  the  idle  breeze, 

With  all  our  sails  a-shiver, 
The  shining  tide  came  softly  through, 

And  filled  Plum  Island  River. 

The  shining  tide  stole  softly  up 
Across  the  wide  green  splendor, 

Creek  swelling  creek  till  all  in  one 
The  marshes  made  surrender. 

And  clear  the  flood  of  silver  swung 

Between  the  brimming  edges, 
And  now  the  depths  were  dark,  and  now 
The  boat  slid  over  the  sedges. 

And  here  a  yellow  sand-spit  foamed 
Amid  the  great  sea  meadows, 

And  here  the  slumberous  waters  gloomed 
Lucid  in  emerald  shadows. 

While,  in  their  friendly  multitude 

Encamped  along  our  quarter. 
The  host  of  hay-cocks  seemed  to  float, 

With  doubles  in  the  water. 

Around  the  sunny  distance  rose 

A  blue  and  hazy  highland, 
And  winding  down  our  winding  way 

The  sand-hills  of  Plum  Island,— 

The  windy  dunes  that  hid  the  sea 

For  many  a  dreary  acre, 
And  muffled  all  its  thundering  fall 

Along  the  wild  South  Breaker. 

We  crept  by  Oldtown's  marshy  mouth, 

By  reedy  Rowley  drifted, 
But  far  away  the  Ipswich  bar 

Its  white-caps  tossed  and  shifted. 


HARRIET  PRESCOTF  SPOFFORU.  613 


Sometimes  we  heard  a  bittern  boom, 

Sometimes  a  piping  plover, 
Sometimes  there  came  the  lonesome  cry 

Of  white  gulls  flying  over. 

Sometimes,  a  sudden  fount  of  light, 
A  "sturgeon  splashed,  and  fleeting 
Behind  the  sheltering  thatch  we  heard 
Oars  in  the  rowlocks  beating. 

But  all  the  rest  was  silence,  save 

The  rippling  in  the  rushes, 
The  gentle  gale  that  struck  the  sail 

In  fitful  swells  and  gushes. 

Silence  and  summer  and  the  sun, 

Waking  a  wizard  legion, 
Wove  as  we  went  their  ancient  spells 

In  this  enchanted  region. 

No  spectral  care  could  part  the  veil 
Of  mists  and  sunbeams  shredded, 

That  everywhere  behind  us  closed 
The  labyrinth  we  threaded. 

Beneath  our  keel  the  great  sky  arched 

Its  liquid  light  and  azure; 
We  swung  between  two  heavens,  ensphered, 

Within  their  charmed  embrasure. 

Deep  in  that  watery  firmament, 
With  flickering  lustres  splendid, 

Poised  in  his  perfect  flight,  we  saw 
The  painted  hawk  suspended, 

And  there,  the  while  the  boat-side  leaned, 
With  youth  and  laughter  laden, 

We  saw  the  red  fin  of  the  perch, 
We  saw  the  swift  menhaden. 

Outside,  the  hollow  sea  might  cry, 
The  wailing  wind  give  warning; 

No  whisper  saddened  us,  shut  in 
With  sunshine  and  the  morning. 

O  far,  far  off  the  weary  world 

With  all  its  tumult  waited, 
Forever  here  with  drooping  sails 

Would  we  have  hung  belated! 


f>1 4  THE  P O E 7'.S  O F  A/ .  1  / .V tf. 


Yet,  when  the  flaw  came  ruffling  down, 
And  round  us  curled  and  sallied, 

We  skimmed  with  bubbles  on  our  track, 
As  glad  as  when  we  dallied. 

Broadly  the  bare  brown  Hundreds  rose. 
The  herds  their  hollows  keeping, 

And  clouds  of  wings  about  her  mast 
From  Swallow  banks  were  sweeping. 

While  evermore  the  Bluff  before 

Grew  greenly  on  our  vision, 
Lifting  beneath  its  waving  Loughs 

Its  grassy  slopes  elysian. 

There,  all  day  long,  the  summer  sea 
Creams  murmuring  up  the  shingle; 

There,  all  day  long,  the  airs  of  earth 
With  airs  of  heaven  mingle. 

Singing,  we  went  our  happy  way. 

Singing  old  songs,  nor  noted 

Another  voice  that  with  us  sang, 

As  wing  and  wing  we  floated. 

Till  hushed,  we  listened,  while  the  air 

With  music  still  was  beating, 
Voice  answering  tuneful  voice,  again 

The  words  we  sang  repeating. 

A  flight  of  fluting  echoes,  sent 

With  ellin  carol  over  us, — 
More  sweet  than  bird-song  in  the  prime 

Rang  out  the  sea-blown  chorus. 

Behind  those  dunes  the  storms  had  heaped 

In  all  fantastic  fashions, 
Who  syllabled  our  songs  in  strains 

Remote  from  human  passions. 

What  tones  were  those  that  caught  our  own, 
Filtered  through  light  and  distance, 

And  tossed  them  gayly  to  and  fro, 
With  such  a  sweet  insistence  ? 

What  shoal  of  sea-sprites,  to  the  sun 

Along  the  margin  flocking, 
Dripping  with  salt  dews  from  the  deeps, 

Made  this  melodious  mocking  ? 


HA  RE  IET  PR  ESCO  TT  SPOFFOR  D.  815 


We  laughed,— a  hundred  voices  rose 

In  airiest,  f airiest  laughter; 
We  sang,— a  hundred  voices  quired 

And  sang  the  whole  song  after. 

One  standing  eager  in  the  prow 

Blew  out  his  bugle  cheeiiy, 
And  far  and  wide  their  horns  replied 

More  silvery  and  clearly. 

And  falling  down  the  falling  tide, 

Slow  and  more  slowly  going, 
Flown  far,  flown  far,  blown  faint  and  fine, 

We  heard  their  horns  still  blowing ! 

Then,  with  the  last  delicious  note 

To  other  skies  alluring. 
Down  ran  the   sails,  beneath  the  Bluff 

The  boat  lay  at  her  mooring. 


THE  FIRE -FLIES  IN  THE  WHEAT. 

Ah,  never  of  a  summer  night 
Will  life  again  be  half  as  sweet 

As  in  that  country  of  delight 
Where  straying,  staying,  with  happy  feet, 
We  watched  the  fire-flies  in  the  wheat. 

Full  dark  and  deep  the  starless  night, 
Still  throbbing  with  the  summer  heat; 

There  was  no  ray  of  any  light, 
But  dancing,  glancing,  far  and  fleet, 
Only  the  fire-flies  in  the  wheat. 

In  that  great  country  of  delight, 
Where  youth  and  love  the  borders  meet, 

We  paused  and  lingered  for  the  sight, 
While  sparkling,  darkling,  flashed  the  sheet 
Of  splendid  fire-flies  in  the  wheat. 

That  night  the  earth  seemed  but  a  height 
Whereon  to  rest  our  happy  feet, 

Watching  one  moment  that  wide  flight 

Where  lightening,  brightening,  mount  and  meet 
Those  burning  fire-flies  in  the  wheat. 


C16  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

What  whispered  words  whose  memory  might 
Make  an  old  heart  with  madness  beat, 

Whose  sense  no  music  can  recite, 
That  chasing,  racing,  rhythmic  beat 
Sings  out  with  fire-flies  in  the  wheat. 

O  never  of  such  blest  despite 
Dreamed  I,  whom  fate  was  wont  to  cheat— 

And  like  a  star  your  face,  and  white- 
While  mingling,  tingling,  wild  as  sleet, 
Stormed  all  those  fire-flies  through  the  wheat. 

Though  of  that  country  of  delight 
The  farther  bounds  we  shall  not  greet, 

Still,  sweet  of  all,  that  summer  night, 
That  maddest,  gladdest  night  most  sweet, 
Watching  the  fire-flies  in  the  wheat! 

MUSIC  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

When  stars  pursue  their  solemn  flight, 

Oft  in  the  middle  of  the  night 

A  strain  of  music  visits  me, 

Hushed  in  a  moment  silvery — 

Such  rich  and  rapturous  strains  as  make 

The  very  soul  of  silence  ache 

With  longing  for  the  melody. 

Or  lovers  in  the  distant  dusk 
Of  summer  gardens,  sweet  with  musk, 
Pouring  their  blissful  burden  out. 
The  breaking  joy,  the  dying  doubt, 
Or  revelers,  all  flown  with  wine, 
And  in  a  madness  half  divine, 
Beating  the  broken  tune  about. 

Or  else  the  rude  and  rolling  notes 

That  leave  some  strolling  sailors'  throats, 

Hoarse  with  the  salt  spray  it  may  be, 

Of  many  a  mile  of  rushing  sea; 

Or  some  high-minded  dreamer  strays 

Late  through  the  solitary  ways, 

Nor  heeds  the  listening  night  or  me. 

Or  how,  how  whence  those  tones  be  heard, 
Hearing  the  slumbering  soul  is  stirred, 
As  when  a  swiftly  passing  light 
Startles  the  shadows  into  flight, 


CELT  A   THAXTER.  517 


While  one  remembrance  suddenly 
Thrills  through  the  melting  melody— 
A  strain  of  music  in  the  night. 

Out  of  the  darkness  bursts  the  song, 
Into  the  darkness  moves  along; 
Only  a  chord  of  ^memory  jars, 
Only  an  old  wound  burns  its  scars, 
As  the  wild  sweetness  of  the  strain 
Smites  the  heart  with  passionate  pain, 
And  vanishes  among  the  stars. 


The  free,  pure  air  of  her  island  home,  the  "  Isle  of  Shoals,"  where  she  holds  "  Sum 
mer  court "  in  her  delightful  cottage,  is  one  of  her  essential  needs.  This  charming,  Avell- 
knovui  poetess,  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  June  29,  1835,  and  her  verses  have  the 
very  swing  of  the  sea.  Among  her  papers  upon  the  islands  of  New  Hampshire  and 
Maine,  is  a  series  of  great  interest  and  value,  which  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
Says  one  of  her  personal  friends,  in  referring  to  the  fact  that  the  boys  and  the  girls  have 
no  truer  or  better  friend  than  she, — "As  we  sat  in  her  room,  we  all  at  once  hoard,  far 
down  in  the  street,  the  letting  out  of  one  of  the  public  schools.  As  the  glad  shouts  and 
merry  laughter  of  the  children  came  up  to  us,  Mrs.  Thaxter  paused  in  her  work,  her 
bright  eyes  glistened  with  pleasure,  and  she  said,  %  Bless  them!  '  with  delightful  hearti 
ness  as  if  refreshed  by  what  some  other  less  sympathetic  soul  might  call  a  racket." 


THE  WATCH  OF  BOOXE  ISLAND. 

They  crossed  the  lonely  and  lamenting  sea; 

Its  moaning  seemed  but  singing.    "  Wilt  thou  dare," 
He  asked  her,  "brave  the  loneliness  with  me  ?" 

"What  loneliness,"  she  said,  "if  thou  art  there?" 

Afar  and  cold  on  the  horizon's  rim 

Loomed  the  tall  light-house,  like  a  ghostly  sign ; 
They  sighed  not  as  the  shore  behind  grew  dim, 

A  rose  of  joy  they  bore  across  the  brine. 

They  gained  the  barren  rock,  and  made  their  home 
Among  the  wild  waves  and  the  sea-birds  wild ; 

The  wintry  winds  blew  fierce  across  the  foam, 
But  in  each  other's  eyes  they  looked  and  smiled. 

Aloft  the  light-house  sent  its  warnings  wide, 
Fed  by  their  faithful  hands,  and  ships  in  sight 

WrTh  joy  beheld  it,  and  on  land  men  cried, 

"Look,  clear  and  steady  burns  Boone  Island  light!" 

And,  while  they  trimmed  the  lamp  with  busy  hands, 

"Shine  far  and  through  the  dark,  sweet  night,"  they  cried; 

"Bring  safely  back  the  sailors  from  all  lands 
To  waiting  love, — wife,  mother,  sister,  bride!" 


618  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


No  tempest  shook  their  calm,  though  many  a  storm 
Tore  the  vexed  ocean  into  furious  spray; 

No  chill  could  find  them  in  their  Eden  warm, 
And  gently  Time  lapsed  onward  day  by  day. 

Said  I,  no  chill  could  find  them  ?  There  is  one 
Whose  awful  footfalls  everywhere  are  known, 

With  echoing  sobs,  who  chills  the  summer  sun, 
And  turns  the  happy  heart  of  youth  to  stone; 

Inexorable  Death,  a  silent  guest 

At  every  hearth,  before  whose  footsteps  flee 
All  joys,  who  rules  the  earth,  and,  without  rest, 

Roams  the  vast  shuddering  spaces  of  the  sea; 

Death  found  them ;  turned  his  face  and  passed  her  by, 

But  laid  a  finger  on  her  lover's  lips, 
And  there  wras  silence.     Then  the  storm  ran  high, 

And  tossed  and  troubled  sore  the  distant  ships. 

Nay;  who  shall  speak  the  terrors  of  the  night, 
The  speechless  sorrow,  the  supreme  despair? 

Still  like  a  ghost  she  trimmed  the  waning  light, 
Dragging  her  slow  weight  up  the  winding  stair. 

With  more  than  oil  the  saving  lamp  she  fed, 
While  lashed  to  madness  the  wild  sea  she  heard ; 

She'kept  her  awful  vigil  with  the  dead, 
And  God's  sweet  pity  still  she  ministered. 

O  sailors,  hailing  loud  the  cheerful  beam, 
Piercing  so  far  the  tumult  of  the  dark, 

A  radiant  star  of  hope,  you  could  not  dream 
What  misery  there  sat  cherishing  that  spark! 

Three  times  the  night,  too  terrible  to  bear, 
Descended,  shrouded  in  the  storm.  At  last 

The  sun  rose  clear  and  still  on  her  despair, 
And  all  her  striving  to  the  winds  she  cast, 

And  bowed  her  head,  and  let  the  light  die  out, 
For  the  wide  sea  lay  calm  as  her  dead  love. 

When  evening  fell,  from  the  far  land,  in  doubt, 
Vainly  to  find  that  faithful  star  men  strove. 

Sailors  and  landsmen  look,  and  women's  eyes, 
For  pity  ready,  search  in  vain  the  night, 

And  wondering  neighbor  unto  neighbor  cries, 

"Now  what,  think  you,  can  ail  Boone  Island  light?" 


HOWARD  OWEN.  519 


Out  from  the  coast  toward  her  high  tower  they  sailed; 

They  found  her  watching,  silent,  by  her  dead, 
A  shadowy  woman,  who  nor  wept  nor  wailed, 

But  answered  what  they  spake,  till  all  was  said. 

They  bore  the  dead  and  living  both  away. 

With  anguish  time  seemed  powerless  to  destroy 
She  turned,  and  backward  gazed  across  the  bay, — 

Lost  in  the  sad  sea  lay  her  rose  of  joy. 


Howard  Owen  was  born  in  Brunswick,  Cumberland  County,  Aug.  28,  1835;  was  educa 
ted  in  the  common  schools,  and  learned  the  printer's  trade  in  the  offices  of  the  Leunston 
Journal  and  Kruiisirick  Telegraph.  Mr.  Owen  has  been  in  Augusta  thirty-three  years 
as  a  journalist,- was  twenty-six  years  in  the  office  of  The  Keuncbec  Journal;  fifteen 
years  as  local  editor,  and  eleven  years  as  one  of  the  proprietors.  He  has  also  edited  the 
Bangor  Doily  Whig;  is  now,  and  has  been  for  about  seven  years,  the  general  editor  of 
the  Maine  Farmer,  also  Register  of  Probate,  President  of  the  Maine  Press  Association, 
and  President  of  the  Augusta  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  He 
published  the  first  Youth's  temperance  paper  started  in  Maine,  and  has  delivered  lec 
tures  before  lyceums,  Memorial  Day  addresses,  agricultural  addresses,  etc.  Mr.  Owen  is 
the  originator  of  biographical  sketches  of  members  of  the  Legislature.  Colby  Univer 
sity  conferred  the  degree  of  A.M.  upon  Mr.  Owen,  in  1879. 

WANTED  TO  BE  AN  EDITOR.* 
I  have  seen  a  man  so  lost  to  all  pity, 
With  temper  wrought  up  and  courage  so  gritty, 
As  to  wish  that  he,  too,  an  editor  was— 
Put  him  in  the  chair,  and  he'd  "just  make  the  boss." 
To  edit  a  newspaper  was  so  easy  a  thing, 
That  the  demented  fellow  thusly  did  sing: 

"I  wish  I  were  an  editor — 

I  really  do,  indeed; 
It  seems  to  me  that  editors 

Get  everything  they  need. 
They  get  the  biggest  and  the  best 

Of  everything  that  grows, 
And  get  in  free  to  circuses 

And  other  kinds  of  shows ; 
And  when  a  mammoth  cheese  is  cut, 

They  always  get  a  slice, 
For  saying  '  Mrs.  Smith  knows  how 

To  make  it  very  nice.' 
The  largest  pumpkin,  longest  beet, 

And  other  garden  stuff, 


*  From  a  poein  read  at  the  Annual  Meeting  of  the  Maine  Press  Association,  in  Port 
land,  Jan.  24, 1884. 


THE  POKTb  OF  MA  INK. 


Is  blown  into  the  sanctum 

By  an  editorial  puff. 
The  editor  is  an  engine 

Whose  fires  will  ne'er  go  out, 
He  always  means  to  keep  up  steam, 

Though  other  men  may  pout. 
Puff,  puff,  puff,  from  morn  till  night, 

Puffing  still  in  the  glaring  noon, 
Puff  by  day  and  by  candle-light, 

Puff  by  sun  and  puff  by  moon. 
The  biggest  bug  will  speak  to  them, 

No  matter  how  they  dress— 
A  shabby  coat  is  nothing— if 

You  own  a  printing-press. 
At  ladies'  fairs  they're  almost  hugged 

By  pretty  girls,  you  know, 
That  they  may  crack  up  everything 

The  ladies  have  to  show. 
And  thus  they  get  a  blow-out  free 

At  every  party  feed— 
The  reason  is,— because  they  write, 

And  other  people  read." 

When  that  man's  song  had  ended  in  a  shout, 

I  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  where 
The  grave,  pale  man  whom  he  had  read  about 

Sat  with  his  family  at  their  scanty  fare. 
No  well-staffed  turkey  and  no  fatted  goose 

Graced  that  frail  board  of  pine-tree  lumber  made, 
No  beefsteak  rare,  no  tenderloin  of  moose, 

No  mutton-chop  was  on  that  table  laid. 

But  now,  behold !  upon  the  old  cracked  plate 

The  saw-dust  pudding  of  historic  fame, 
The  skimmed-milk  pitcher  sat  beside  its  mate 

Of  butter  strong;  'twas  seized  on  all  the  same 
By  that  hard  crowd  of  famished  printer's  devils, 

With  sharpened  teeth  and  appetites  so  keen 
That  they  could  find,  where  demons  have  their  revels, 

A  bounteous  repast  as  was  ever  seen. 

Last  comes  the  pie— the  printer's  pie,  indeed, 
Served  with  roller  composition  as  the  crust, 

A  hearty  dinner  on  which  they  daily  feed, 
Eat  it  or  starve ;  '  tis  dinner  now,  or  bust! 


HOWARD  OWEN.  521 


Forth  from  this  meal  the  poor  man  wends  his  way 
To  that  dim  cloister  where  his  brain  works  well, 

Amid  the  cobwebs  that  the  light  of  day 
Shows  pendant  on  the  ceiling  of  his  prison  cell. 

The  door  is  opened,  and  a  sulphurous  smell 

Fills  all  the  space,  as  he  of  cloven  foot 
And  forked  tongue,  the  devil  of  the  printer's  hell, 

Comes  with  eyeballs  glaring  and  with  cheeks  of  soot. 

"More  copy  now  is  wanted,"  said  the  fiend, 
"Two  columns  space  is  waiting  to  be  filled; 

Each  single  item  of  the  local  news  is  gleaned, 
The  copy  's  all  been  put  in  type  by  fingers  skilled." 

With  scissors  upraised,  the  editor  grasped 
The  last  exchange  that  the  mail  had  brought, 

The  leader  there  to  his  heart  he  clasped ; 

"I'll  make  it  mine  own — a  most  happy  thought." 

But  list !  a  gentle  step  on  the  stair  is  heard, 

And  Jones  comes  in,  who  has  talked  to  death 
Good  men  in  his  day,  or  changed  to  curd 

Their  tempers  sweet,  and  with  poisonous  breath 
Riddled  their  characters  fore  and  aft, 

Till  the  way  was  strown  with  shipwrecked  craft. 
He  settled  himself  in  the  softest  chair, 

Unbuttoned  his  coat  and  wiped  his  chin, 
Ran  his  long  fingers  through  his  matted  hair, 

Opened  his  mouth  and  was  about  to  begin, — 
When  the  door  again  opens  and  Smith  appears; 

He  wishes  to  glance  at  the  morning  Journal. 
He's  just  heard  some  news,  but  strongly  fears 

'Twas  wrongly  reported  by  gossips  infernal. 
"Please,  I'll  not  bother  you,  but  just  let  me  look 

O'er  this  pile  of  exchanges  here  in  the  chair; 
Or,  if  .you  don't  mind,  I'll  read  this  new  book, 

That  your  notice  of  it  may  be  honest  and  fair." 

Up  the  rickety  stairs  creeps  a  ponderous  frame, 

The  sweat  on  his  brow  stands  bead-like  and  glowing,  - 
He  clasps  a  big  due-bill  bearing  his  name, 

With  a  dun  from  the  editor  whom  he  is  owing. 
Clutched  in  his  right  hand  the  king  of  all  clubs, 

Mightier  than  that  which  Hercules  shied 
At  the  swift-footed  beast  and  her  venomous  cubs — 

A  being  like  that  would  have  Satan  defied. 

35 


522  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


He  enters  the  sanctum,  and  down  on  the  floor 
Rests  his  huge  club,  while  he  "wipes  off  his  chin," 

"Pulls  down  his  vest,"  and  slams  to  the  door; 
His  work  of  destruction  is  soon  to  begin. 

He  took  the  pale  man  from  the  editor's  chair, 

By  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  twist  of  the  hair, 

And  held  him  suspended  'twixt  heaven  and  earth — 

'T  was  no  season  of  levity,  neither  of  mirth. 

He  melted  away  in  the  air  of  the  den — 

The  still,  silent  air  where  so  long  he  had  been, 

With  his  scissors  and  paste-brush  and  rusty  old  pen. 

As  the  boy  next  morning  was  sweeping  the  room, 
A  grease-spot  adhered  to  a  wisp  of  his  broom; 
A  verdict  was  rendered — they  read  it  who  run : 
The  editor  perished  because  of  a  dun! 


Stwtwnnt. 


Mrs.  S.  M.  Sturtevant,  the  wife  of  a  Swedenborgian  clergyman,  formerly  settled  in  Port 
land,  is  believed  to  have  been  a  native  of  Maine,  born  about  1835.  She  was  the  author 
of  several  little  volumes,  in  prose  and  verse,  entitled  "  Sunshine  and  Shade,"  "  Winter 
Scenes,"  "Willie  Walton,"  and  "The  Holidays;"  the  last  named  volume  was  printed 
by  S.  H.  Coles  worthy,  in  Portland,  1873.  Mrs.  Sturtevaiit  died,  a  few  years  since,  in  Cal 
ifornia. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

A  song  for  the  ever  hastening  time, 

A  dirge  for  the  dying  year — 
Closed  are  its  records  of  goodness  and  crime, 

Passed  its  hours  of  hope  and  fear. 

O  swiftly  indeed  have  the  moments  passed, 

Since  the  year  was  first  begun; 
When  it  seemed  that  it  would  forever  last, 

But  now  its  race  is  run. 

And  what  tale,  Old  Year,  do  thy  records  bear 

Of  the  hours  thus  quickly  fled  ? 
Have  the  hopes  that  greeted  thy  morn  so  fair 

Turned  to  joys,  as  on  time  sped  ? 

Can  we  trace  in  every  succeeding  page, 

Number  with  each  passing  day 
A  victory  won,  an  advancing  step 

In  the  onward,  upward  way  ? 


HANNAH  ELIZABETH  BRADBURY  GOODWIN.  523 


Ah!  not  tliis,  indeed,  does  memory  trace 

In  the  records  of  the  past; 
'  Tis  a  chequered  page,  where  sorrow  and  crime 

With  alternate  joys  are  cast. 

And  swiftly,  too  swiftly,  have  passed  the  hours 

For  our  improvement  given — 
We  mourn  in  vain  our  wasted  time  and  powers, 

Our  slow  advance  towards  heaven. 

Yet  still  our  saddened  eyes  can  trace,  through  tears, 

Gleams  of  joys,  so  pure  and  free, 
That  they  will  brighten  all  our  after  years 

With  their  hallowed  memory. 

Farewell  to  thee,  Old  Year!     Life's  record  now 

Turns  an  unwritten  page; 
Another  leaf  to  memory's  book  is  given, 

Another  year  to  age. 


jjznmh  j§lizabeth  jjnidlntrg  (jjoodtvin. 

Mrs.  H.  B.  Goodwin,  now  of  Boston,  was  born  in  Chesterville.  Me.  Her  iriaiden  name 
was  Hannah  Elizabeth  Bradbury,  and  her  school-days  were  mainly  spent  in  Farmington 
Academy.  She  is  better  known  in  the  world  of  letters  through  her  prose  writings  than  by 
her  poems,  being  the  author  of  several  widely-read  novels,  among  which  are  "  Dr.  How- 
ell's  Family,"  "Christine's  Fortune,"  "  One  Among  Many,"  and  "  Our  Party  of  Four." 
During  her  residence  in  Bangor,  Mrs.  Goodwin,  under  the  initials  of  "  H.  K.  B.."  wrote 
charming  little  stories  and  poems  which  were  widely  read  throughout  New  England. 
Her  later  literary  productions  have  given  her  a  national  reputation. 


LAKE  LUCERNE. 
O  fair  Lucerne,  thy  waters  make 

A  mirror  for  proud  Rhigi's  face, 
And  clouds  their  purple  glory  take 

From  heavenly  heights  to  lend  thee  grace: 
Then  on  thy  softly  blushing  breast 
In  golden  silence  calmly  rest, 

As  an  infant  to  its  mother  pressed ! 

Upon  thy  waves  the  lily  white 
In  summer  sunshine  idly  dreams; 

The  harebell  bends  to  catch  the  light 
That  on  thy  crystal  bosom  gleams; 

The  brown-eyed  pansy  lifts  its  head 
From  off  the  tender  mosses'  bed 
On  thee  her  incense  sweet  to  shed. 


524  HIE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 

Fringes  of  modest,  graceful  ferns 
Creep  closely  to  thy  silver  brim; 

The  columbine  her  coy  face  turns 
From  sheltering  rocks  so  gray  and  grim, 

And  looks,  with  fondly  wistful  eyes, 
Into  thy  depths,  where  mirrored  lies 
The  sunset  amber  of  the  skies. 

The  tasseled  larch  and  tuneful  pine 
Their  shade  and  music  freely  give ; 

And  flowering  shrub  and  trailing  vine 
Beside  thee  are  content  to  live ; 

With  joyous  shout  the  glad  streams  leap 
From  heights,  where  snows  eternal  sleep, 
A  carnival  with  thee  to  keep. 

Around  thee  hoary  mountains  stand, 
Guarding  thine  everlasting  dower 

Of  beauty  from  profaning  hand, 
And  telling  always  of  God's  power, 

His  majesty  and  holiness, — 
And  while  thy  waves  their  feet  caress, 
Thy  gentle  mission  is  to  bless. 


A  WINTER  SUNSET. 

White  and  silent  the  earth  in  its  shroud, 

Dark  and  sullen  the  sky- 
When  lo!  from  the  heart  of  a  cloud 

Leaped  forth  and  on  high, 
Waves  of  shimmering  colors  and  light 

That  transfigured  the  night ! 

First  amber,  then  topaz,  then  gold 

Illumined  the  west, — 
Then  amethyst  molten  uprolled 

With  gems  on  its  crest; — 
Pink  and  purple  and  every  tint, 

Without  measure  or  stint. 

From  horizon  to  zenith  quick  sped 

The  onflowing  tide, — 
Now  golden,  now  crimson,  now  red, 

Sweep  the  waves  far  and  wide, 
Till  the  glory  of  Paradise  seems 

Revealed  as  in  dreams. 


HANNAH  ELIZABETH  KEAVB  URT  GOOD  WIN.  £23 


Then  slowly  with  lingering  kiss 

On  each  cloud  in  the  west, 
Wave  on  wave  ebbs  away,  but  the  bliss 

Of  the  sunset's  bequest 
Evermore  in  my  heart  will  remain, 

Compensation  for  pain. 


ONLY  FERNS. 
When  the  fields  are  full  of  blossoms, 

And  the  air  of  songs, 
Can  we  pause  to  ask  what  honor 

To  the  fern  belongs  ? 

Only  bits  of  common  brightness, 

Carpeting  the  ground ; 
Scarcely  heeded  when  the  summer 

Flings  her  wealth  around. 

Only  ferns,  whose  feathery  tendrils 

Toss  in  waves  of  green, 
Nestle  in  the  wild  wood's  shelter, 

On  bleak  hillsides  lean. 

Like  God's  mercies  they  are  common, 

Every  morning  new, 
And  at  eventide  they  freshen 

With  the  falling  dew. 

True  and  tender,  meek  and  modest, 

Lingering  till  the  last 
Of  the  flowering  hosts  have  perished 

'Neath  the  autumn  blast. 

Symbol  of  God's  loving-kindness, 

Brave  and  steadfast  fern ;  • 
May  we  from  thy  strength  and  weakness 

Gentle  lessons  learn. 


A  CHILD'S  DREAM. 
"O  mamma,  please  listen!  I've  seen  in  my  sleep 

Dear  Annie,  whom  Christ  took  last  year 
To  live  in  a  mansion  above  the  blue  sky, 

Where  never  a  sorrow  and  never  a  fear 
Can  reach  little  children,  whose  eye  may  behold 
Such  beauty  and  glory  as  cannot  be  told. 

35* 


626  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


"Annie  came  in  a  dream  and  sat  by  my  side, 
And  leaned  her  fair  cheek  against  mine ; 

She  whispered  sweet  words  in  a  voice  soft  and  low, 
And  tender,  dear  mamma,  as  thine; 

The  same  little  Annie  she  was,  but  her  eyes 

Seemed  a  bit  of  the  blue  dropped  out  of  the  skies. 

."  Before  I  could  ask  her  who  sent  her  to  me, 

And  what  the  glad  tidings  she  bore, 
Or  look  half  enough  on  her  beautiful  face, 

And  the  silvery  robes  that  she  wore — 
She  placed  in  my  hands  a  lily  so  white 
That  it  shone  like  a  star  through  the  shadows  of  night. 

"  And  then  while  I  held  the  sweet  lily  she  gave, 

Inhaling  its  precious  perfume — 
Before  I  could  thank  her,  dear  Annie  was  gone, 

And  I  was  alone  in  the  room ! 
The  lily  she  left  faded  out  of  my  sight, 
As  clouds  fade  away  when  the  morning  brings  light. 

"It  was  only  a  dream  ?    But,  mamma,  I  think 

That  Christ  will  send  Annie  ere  long, 
With  a  "garland  of  lilies  to  wear  on  my  head, 

And  then  she  will  teach  me  the  song 
Of  those  happy  children,  who  sing  near  the  throne 
With  angels  and  all  whom  our  Lord  calls  His  own." 

It  was  only  a  dream,  but  a  light  not  of  earth 

Illumined  her  face  as  she  spoke; 
And  one  morning  soon  after  the  dear  little  girl 

With  Annie  in  heaven  awoke! 

And  this  dream,  in  the  mother's  heart  cherished  to-day, 
On  a  grave  that  is  green  throws  its  hallowing  ray. 


Mrs.  Lucy  M.  Perry,  daughter  of  William  E.  Moulton,  was  born  in  Parsonsfleld,  York 
County,  and  has  contributed  to  several  of  the  State,  and  other  journals.  She  was  educa 
ted  at  North  Parsonsiield,  but  is  now,  and  has  been  for  some  time,  a  resident  of  Portland. 


THE  OLD  DOOR-STONE. 

I  remember  well  in  the  years  agone, 
When  the  work  of  the  summer  day  was  done, 
And  the  sun  going  down  his  pathway  bright, 
Sent  back  gleaming  arrows  of  golden  light, 
How  a  group  of  glad  children,  one  by  one, 
Would  gather  around  the  old  door-stone. 


LUCY  3/0 UL TON  PEER Y.  527 


I  can  hear  again  the  boisterous  shout 

Of  their  voices  merrily  ringing  out, 

As  they  gayly  sported  in  careless  glee 

At  the  old  games  of  childhood  wild  and  free; 

And  fond  parents,  with  eye  of  pride,  looked  on 

The  children  who  played  round  the  old  door-stone. 

Ah,  well!  many  a  year  has  passed  since  then, 
Bringing  each  their  changes  of  joy  and  pain, 
And  some  who  were  watching  the  children  at  play 
Are  looking  on  them  from  heaven  to-day; 
With  quietly  folded  hands  they  were  borne 
To  their  silent  rest,  from  the  old  door-stone. 

And  the  children,  who  played  there,  side  by  side, 

Have  gone  out  from  the  homestead,  far  and  wide; 

Between  them  doth  many  a  valley  lie, 

And  plain,  and  broad  river,  and  mountain  high, 

And  full  many  a  weary  day  has  flown 

Since  they  last  met  round  the  old  door-stone. 

But  they  know  as  the  swift  years  onward  glide, 
They  are  nearer  borne  on  the  rocking  tide 
To  a  world  where  sorrow  and  care  are  past, 
Where  the  "rest  that  remaineth"  is  found  at  last, 
And  in  heaven  shall  be  gathered,  one  by  one, 
The  children  who  met  round  the  old  door-stone. 

THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 
O  listen,  little  children,  while  a  story  I  recite, 
Which  happened  many  years  ago  upon  this  happy  night. 
Along  the  plains  of  Judah  the  white  flock  sleeping  lay, 
While  the  shepherds  rested  near  them  from  the  labor  of  the  day. 

When  suddenly  witli  music  sweet  there  came  a  spoken  word, 
(O  never  more  upon  this  earth  will  such  melody  be  heard, 
And  only  once  in  ages  past,  did  heaven  such  songs  employ, 
When  morning  stars  first  sang  aloud,  in  wondrous  notes  of  joy,) 

Which  to  the  waiting  shepherds  said,  "Fear  not;  upon  this  morn 
The  long  expected  Saviour,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  is  born." 
And  the  heavens  grew  bright  with  glory,  and  the  angels  chanted  then 
"Peace,  peace  on  earth,  O  shepherds,  evermore  good  will  to  men." 

It  was  long  ago,  dear  children,  but  we  hold  the  memory  dear 

Of  tbe  Saviour,  Christ,  who  came  to  bring  such  blessings  to  us  here; 

And  never,  as  the  years  go  by,  may  we  forget  to  pray, 

God  keep  us  all  in  his  dear  love,  while  we  keep  Christmas  day. 


628 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


This  native  of  the  "Pine  Tree  State"  was  born  in  Rockland,  Sept.  26,  1835,  and 
received  only  educational  advantages  of  common  schools.  Learned  printer's  trade  in 
office  of  Rockland  (lozelte,  1852-55.  Succeeded  \V.  G.  Frye,  Esq.,  as  editor  of  Gazette, 
March.  1857,  and  held  this  position  continuously  until  January.  1882.  In  January,  1859, 
started  7  he  Maine  ^jjtf  tutor,  a  Meekly  literary  paper  "  for  youth  and  the  home  circle," 
•which  was  discontinued  after  a  few  months  for  lack  of  sufficient  support.  In  February, 
18CO  began  publication  of  The  Youth's  Temperance  Visitor,  an  eight  page  monthly. 
On  account  of  the  outbreak  of  the  rebellion  it  was  suspended  after  the  first  year,  but 
resumed  in  September,  18G2,  and  continued  for  nine  years,  the  subscription  list  reaching 
7,000  the  first  year  and  11,000  later.  In  1870  its  form  was  changed  to  1C  pages,  and  title 
to  Young  People?  8  Helper  and  Tonptrfmce  Visitor.  In  lee-ember,  1871,  Mr.  Vose  dis 
posed  of  'this  publication  to  another  publisher,  and  it  was  soon  discontinued.  In  Octo 
ber,  1871,  Mr.  Vose  pun-based  an  half  interest  in  the  Rockland  Gazette,  with  which 
paper,  as  mentioned,  he  had  long  had  editorial  connection,  and  continued  its  editor  and 
co-publisher  until  January,  1882,  when  he  sold  his  interest  to  W.  O.  Fuller,  Jr.,  of  the 
Jtoekland  (  oin-ier,  and  the  two  papers  were  corsolidated.  At  the  date  last  mentioned, 
Mr.  Vose  removed  to  Minneapolis,  Minn.,  engaged  in  the  millinery  business,  since  which 
time  he  has  not  been  connected  with  the  press.  In  December,  1857,  Mr.  Vose'began  publi 


Ltion  of    a  sixteen-page  illustrated  monthly    temperance    paper  for  youth,  entitled 
oung  People's  Comrade,  edited  by  Miss  Julia  Coleman,  which  was  continued  but  one 


cation 
Y 
year. 


REQUIEM. 

IN   MEMORY   OF    MAJOR   GENERAL   HIRAM   G.    BERRY. 


Boom !  brazen  cannon,  boom ! 
Low  in  the  silent  tomb 

Our  gallant  warrior  lies ; 
Dust  unto  dust  goes  down, 
Spirit,  to  wear  its  crown 

Of  life,  ascends  the  skies. 
Bravely,  Ids  ranks  beside, 
He  stemmed  the  battle's  tide; 

Nobly  he  fought  and  well, 

But  in  the  strife  he  fell; 
Stricken,  he  fell  and  died. 

Boom!  boom! 

Speak  from  each  brazen  throat 
Grief  in  each  measured  note, — 

Boom !  brazen  cannon,  boom ! 

Droop !  starry  banner,  droop ! 
Your  blazoned  glories  stoop 

Low  o'er  the  hero's  grave! 
From  the  embracing  sky, 
Waft  downward  Freedom's  sigh — 

Freedom  he  died  to  save ! 
Freemen  revere  his  name ; 
Honor  the  patriot's  aim. 


Toll !  bells,  in  sadness  toll ! 
Your  solemn  anthem  roll! 

City  that  gave  him,  weep! 
Claiming  this  mournful  trust, 
Take  back  his  lifeless  dust, 

Safely  to  guard  and  keep. 
When  Sumpter's  cannon  spoke, 
And  at  that  summons  woke 
Thousands  to  freedom's  call, 
He  came  to  win  or  fall, 
Where  Treason's  fire  outbroke. 

Toll!  toll! 

Speak  from  each  iron  tongue, 
Grief  that  our  hearts  has  wrung,- 

Toll!  bells,  in  sadness  toll! 

One  in  the  noble  band 
Dying  for  native  land, 
His  is  his  country's  fame! 

Droop!  droop! 
Flag  of  the  brave  and  free, 
He  gave  his  life  for  thee ! 

Droop !  starry  banner,  droop  I 


M A  R  F  MO  UL  TON  HILL.  529 


Write,  pen  of  History,  write,  And  on  thy  deathless  page, 

In  words  of  burning  light,  Brightening  from  age  to  age, 

Deeds  of  his  mighty  day!  Be  its  Defenders  hailed  ! 

And  to  the  brave  and  free,  Write!  write! 

Saviour  of  Liberty,  High  on  the  roll  of  fame, 

Millions  shall  praises  pay!  Blazon  our  hero's  name! 

Tell  how  the  Wrong  assailed;  Write!  pen  of  History,  write! 
Tell  how  the  Right  prevailed; 


\onlton      ill. 


Mary  Moulton  Hill,  daughter  of  William  E.  Moulton,  was  born  in  Parsonsfield,  York 
County,  Me.,  and  is  now  living  in  Sandwich,  Carroll  County,  N.  H.  She  was  educated  at 
North  Parsonsfield  Seminary  and  the  High  School  at  Haverhill,  Mass.  Her  husband, 
the  Hon.  David  H.  Hill,  liegister  of  Probate  for  Carroll  County,  N.  H.,  is  elsewhere  rep 
resented  in  this  volume. 


"A,  B,  C." 
I  watch  the  children  going  to  school, 

With  careless  laughter  and  noisy  shout, 
And  the  happy  faces  homeward  bound, 

When  work  is  over  and  school  is  out. 
But  there's  something  more,  so  it  seems  to  me, 
For  the  children  to  learn  than  "A,  B,  C." 

They  will  learn  that  unto  the  best  of  earth 

The  brute  inheritance  still  will  cling ; 
That  in  spite  of  breeding  and  gentle  birth, 

Ever  and  always  self  is  king- 
That  the  world  at  large,  in  their  charity, 
Have  never  learned  their  "A,  B,  C." 

They  will  learn  that  dogma,  code  and  creed 
Are  founded  by  man,  and  not  by  God ; 

That  in  deeds  of  kindness  in  sorest  need 
We  never  follow  the  path  Christ  trod ; 

That  in  walking  his  footsteps,  it  seems  to  me, 

We  never  have  learned  our  "A,  B,  C." 

But  they'll  learn  as  the  added  years  roll  on, 
And  the  heart  grows  tender  as  life  ebbs  low, 

That  Love  Eternal  wraps  us  round 
In  all  our  wanderings  to  and  fro ; 

And  in  God's  own  time  what  we  yet  shall  be, 

Our  brightest  faith  is  but  "A,  B,  C." 


630  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  OLD  ELM-TKEE. 

O  the  old  elm- tree  is  standing  now, 

Where  it  stood  so  long  ago, 
When  in  its*  shade  we  children  played 

Till  the  sun  in  the  west  grew  low; 
And  its  branches  reach  as  far  and  wide, 

And  the  sky  above  is  as  clear, 
But  under  it  now  no  children  play 

In  the  golden  days  of  the  year. 

The  sunbeams  creep  through  the  rustling  leaves,. 

And  fall  on  the  moss-grown  seat; 
And  tall  grass  waves  where  in  other  years 

Tt  was  worn  by  children's  feet. 
The  bees  hum  lazily  in  the  shade, 

In  the  long  bright  summer  day, 
And  the  soft  wind  murmurs  with  lonely  sound 

Where  the  children  used  to  play. 

They  all  are  gone  from  their  childhood's.home, 

And  have  wandered  far  away; 
Of  all  that  band  of  the  dear  old  time, 

There  is  not  one  left  to-day. 
In  weary  ways  of  care  and  painr 

Their  wandering  feet  have  trod; 
And  some  have  gone  through  the  silent  gate 

To  the  Fatherland  of  God. 

And  many  a  weary  year  has  gone, 

And  many  a  summer's  sun 
Has  passed  adovvn  the  golden  west, 

When  the  long  bright  day  was  done. 
And  the  winds  of  autumn  have  sadly  moaned, 

And  many  a  winter  cast 
O'er  hill  and  vale  its  shroud  "of  snow, 

Since  the  children  met  there  last: 

And  the  weary  years  will  still  move  on, 

With  their  sunshine  and  their  pain, 
But  there  in  the  shade  where  the  children  played 

They  will  never  meet  again. 
But  there  is  a  heaven  of  quiet  rest, 

And  its  portal  is  open  wide ; 
And  one  by  one,  when  this  life  is  doneT 

They  will  meet  on  the  other  side. 


PI1EBE  COBB  DOLE.  631 


Phebe  Cobb  Dole,  youngest  daughter  of  Joseph  C.  and  Mary  P.  Larry,  was  born  in  Gor- 
ham,  Me.,  Nov  28,  1835,  and  educated  at  the  common  schools  in  Gorhain  and  Windhana 
closing  with  several  terms  at  Gorham  Seminary.  She  was  married  to  Samuel  T.  Dole,  of 
Wiudliain,  May  1,  1853,  is  the  mother  of  two  boys  who  have  passed  into  the  higher  life. 
Mrs.  Dole  commenced  writing  for  the  Portland,  Transcript  and  other  Maine  papers  in 
the  year  I860;  has  since  written  for  several  magazines,  among  them  Peterson's,  Ameri 
can  Odd  Fellow  and  St.  Louis  Magazine.  She  is  a  member  of  the  New  Jerusalem 
Church,  Portland,  Me. 


PENOBSCOT  BAY. 

Thy  shining  strand  is  clear  and  white, 

Thy  crested  billows  glad  and  free; 
Alone  beneath  the  starry  night, 

I  find  a  joyous  home  with  thee. 
Across  the  sea  is  lightly  Hung 
A  silver  bridge  by  moonbeams  hung; 

Each  radiant  bar, 

That  gleams  afar, 
Is  fastened  by  a  glorious  star; 

And  airy  feet, 

In  dances  meet, 
Upon  thy  waters  wild  and  fleet. 

What  matter  if  the  midnight  throws 
Its  stillness  o'er  thy  summer  sea  ? 
What  matter  if  I  find  repose, 

Lulled  by  thy  billows'  melody  ? 
If  only  I  may  rest  and  know 
How  sweet  the  winds  around  me  blow ; 

How  clear  and  bright 

The  quivering  light 
Shows  up  the  beauties  of  thy  night. 

And  best  of  all, 

Though  shadows  fall, 
A  loving  Father  keeps  us  all. 

BEAUTIFUL  BIRD  WITH  THE  STARRY  JWIN Gk 

Beautiful  bird  with  the  starry  wing, 

Pause  in  your  journey  and  stay  with  me! 
I've  a  bower  of  roses  where  you  may  sing, — 

I  've  a  silken  nest  where  your  rest  shall  be. 
The  winter  its  "shuttles  of  silver"  is  throwing, 
The  storm  clouds  are  ragged  and  wild  winds  are  blowing, 
Come  to  my  home  where  the  warm  light  is  glowing, 
Beautiful  bird  with  the  starry  wing! 


632  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  world  is  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and  cold 

It  will  dim  your  gladness,  and  chill  your  song; 
You  shall  wear  no  fetters  within  my  fold, 

And  none  shall  harm  you,  and  none  shall  wrong. 
Your  wings  are  too  frail  for  the  storm  and  its  anger, 

Your  song  is  too  sweet  for  the  world  and  its  danger, — 
Come  to  my  lattice,  no  longer  a  ranger, 

Beautiful  bird  with  the  starry  wing? 


A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM. 

From  out  Christ's  fold  a  little  face  Io6ks  tenderly  in  mine, 

Ko  shade  around  the  loving  mouth  or  in  the  eyes  divine, 

No  stain  upon  the  childish  brow,  pure  as  an  angel's  wing, 

And  in  my  clasp  a  hand  is  laid,  a  shining,  dimpled  thing, 

Pure  as  a  snowflake  fluttering  through  the  storm-clouds'  ragged  vest, 

Bright  as  the  gleaming  star  that  led  the  "Wise  men  of  the  East." 

I  have  a  little  fair-haired  boy— some  people  call  him  dead— 

For  years  beneath  the  tufted  turf  his  earthly  form  has  laid; 

But  I  believe  there  is  no  death,  I  dream  he  lives  for  me, 

A  guardian  power  that  gently  leads  where'er  my  footsteps  be; 

A  messenger  from  God,  who  knows  my  every  thought  and  care, 

Who  teaches  when  my  soul  should  learn  where  lies  a  tempting  snare. 

And  if  I  shrink  beside  the  way,  or  faint,  as  all  may  do, 

Within  the  curtained,  starry  fold,  the  little  face  looks  through 

The  pearly  portal.     Touched  with  light  I  rise  from  dust  and  mould, 

Forget  the  darkness  of  the  earth,  its  weariness  and  cold; 

I  feel  the  voice  so  dear  to  me  thrill  all  my  soul  again— 

I  catch  sweet  glimpses  of  that  life,  away  from  earth  and  pain. 

God  ever  rules  by  laws  divine;  He  gives  no  love  in  vain; 

If  earth  were  full  of  quiet  ease  without  a  touch  of  pain, 

Wh:it  should  we  know  of  happiness,  used  in  its  highest  sense  ? 

We  trust  too  much  in  self,  and  doubt  His  wise  omnipotence; 

We  trust  too  much  in  blinded  guides,  who  see  no  heaven-lit  bowers — 

Who  teach  that  death  dissevers  love,  and  turn  from  hidden  powers, 

That  act  upon  the  inner  sense,  the  soul  that  cannot  die, 

But  lives,  and  loves,  through  time  and  space,  through  all  eternity. 

I  am  no  saint— God  help  me— for  none  are  undented: 

Who  heeds  the  tiny  sparrow's  fall  will  not  forget  a  child; 

Although  we  stray,  we  cannot  pass  from  His  divine  control, 

"Our  sins  may  be  as  crimson,  He  will  wash  as  white  as  wool." 


FRANCES  LAUGIITON  MACE.  533 


There  is  so  much  to  learn  in  life,  so  much  to  overcome, 
And  we  so  love  to  help  ourselves  and  leave  our  friends  alone, 
While  envy,  pride,  and  all  the  train  that  follow  selfishness, 
Crush  out  the  gladness  from  our  way,  and  give  us  bitterness. 

O  if  we  could  but  rise  above  these  petty  sins  of  ours, 

How  often  where  we  gather  thorns,  we  might  find  sweetest  flowers; 

If  we  could  only  love  the  small,  and  on  the  simple  wait, 

Instead  of  power,  and  worldly  fame,  and  men  of  high  estate; 

If  we  would  follow  after  Christ,  the  source  of  heavenly  food, 

We  might  become  the  highest  types  of  man  and  womanhood. 

We  know  he  taught  us  what  is  best,  why  should  we  doubt  His  word, 
Or  shrink  and  faint  because  we  fear  to  tread  a  toilsome  road  ? 
He  wore  the  thorns  without  complaint,  and  found  a  cross  of  pain, 
That  we  might  win  a  land  of  love  where  the  immortal  reign; 
And  should  we  fear  to  tread  the  path  His  bleeding  feet  have  trod  ? 
And  should  we  dread  the  open  hand  of  an  all-loving  God  ? 

Throw  back  the  darkness  from  your  path,  your  reasoning  vain  and  cold, 
And  Faith  will  lead  your  erring  feet  nearer  the  Saviour's  fold; 
And  whisper,  as  one  did  of  old,  "Help  Thou  mine  unbelief!" 
And  He  will  teach  you  what  you  need,  and  give  your  soul  relief. 

From  out  Christ's  fold  a  little  face  makes  glad  my  passing  hours — 

The  soul  has  sunshine  all  its  own,  undimmed  by  earthly  powers, 

An  everlasting  song  of  joy,  sweet  as  an  incense  hymn, 

That  paves  a  path  of  radiant  light  no  cl<rVl  can  ever  dim; 

Before  me  winds  a  shining  stair,  where,  if  I  would  be  led, 

No  power  will  hold  me  from  mine  own;  the  Kviny — not  the  dead. 


This  author,  the  daughter  of  Sumner  Laughton,  of  Orono,  and  wife  of  Benjamin  H. 
Mace,  a  lawyer  of  Bangor,  Avas  born  in  Orono,  Jan.  15, 1836.  Her  poems  first  appeared  in 
print  when  she  was  only  twelve  years  of  age,  being  published  in  the  Watervllle  Mail. 
When  her  father  removed  to  Bangor,  she  entered  the  High  School  of  that  city,  complet 
ing  the  course  at  a  very  early  age,  and  subsequently  studying  by  herself  for  some  years. 
Her  marriage  occurred  in  1855.  She  has  been  the  mother  of  eight  children,  four  of  whom 
survive,  and  one  of  whom  has  become  Mrs.  Marion  L.  Parsons,  a  successful  writer  of 
short  stories.  Mrs.  Mace's  early  contributions  to  the  press  soon  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  New  York  Journal  of  Commerce,  and  she  has  been  a  constant  writer  for  that 
journal  at  a  liberal  compensation  ever  since.  At  eighteen  she  wrote  the  now  familiar 
hymn,  "  Only  Waiting,"  and  has  received  letters  expressive  of  appreciation  of  it,  and  of 
thanks  for  its  consolation,  from  every  State  and  Territory  in  the  Union.  Harper's  Mac/- 
azine,  the  Atlantic,  the  ( 'entury  and  Scribner's,  are  all  enriched  with  the  product  of  her 
pen.  A  short  poem  contributed  by  her  to  the  Portland  Transcript,  recently,  has  been 
greatly  admired.  Her  fame  has  grown  steadily,  and  has  reached  beyond  the  seas.  When, 
in  November,  1883,  a  volume  of  her  collected  poems  was  for  the  first  time  published 
under  the  title,  "  Legends,  Lyrics,  and  Sonnets,"  so  great  was  the  demand  that  the  edi 
tion  was  exhausted,  and  another  issued  within  a  few  weeks.  Her  second  volume  "Under 
Pine  and  Palm,"  was  lately  published  in  Boston,  and  is  dedicated,  in  chaste  and  beauti- 


534  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


ful  language,  to  her  father  and  mother.  This,  too,  is  having  a  large  sale.  Her  words  are 
those  of  purity,  grandeur  and  splendor,  aid  her  verse,  is  "strong,  limpid  and  dec  j  —  a 
river  of  music  in  perpetual  flow."  Mr.  and  Mrs  Mace  went  to  San  .lose,  Cal.,  tvo  >ears 
ago  for  the  benefit  ot  their  health,  and  found  the  region  so  agreeable  that  they  decided 
to  settle  there.  The  Mercury,  printed  at  San  rlose",  and  in  lact  all  the  papers  of  the 
Pacific  coast  have  given  Mrs.  Mace  and  her  family  a  most  hearty  welcome,  and  are  proud 
of  their  adopted  children. 


THE  VIOLETS. 
I  know  a  spot  where  woods  are  green, 

And  all  the  dim,  delicious  June, 
A  brook  flows  fast  the  boughs  between, 

And  trills  an  eager,  joyous  tune. 
In  clear,  unbroken  melody, 
The  brook  sings  and  the  birds  reply, 
"The  violets— the  violets!" 

Upon  the  water's  velvet  edge 

The  purple  blossoms  breathe'delight, 
Close  nestled  to  the  grassy  sedge, 

As  sweet  as  dawn,  as  dark  as  night. 

0  brook  and  branches  far  away, 

My  heart  keeps  tune  with  you  to-day: 
"The  violets— the  violets!" 

1  sometimes  dream  that  when  at  last 
My  life  is  done  with  fading  things, 

Again  will  blossom  forth  the  past, 

To  which  my  memory  fondest  clings. 
That  some  fair  star  has  kept  for  me, 
Fresh  blooming  still  by  brook  and  treet 
"The  violets—the  violets!" 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  ROSE. 
Long  ago  a  lovely  wood-nymph, 

Flora's  fairest  child, 
Roamed  Arcadia's  velvet  meadows, 

Silent,  shy,  and  wild, 

Until  Death,  enamored,  met  her 

In  her  beauty's  glow, 
Touched  her  with  his  lip  of  marble, 

Kissed  her  cheek  to  snow. 

Flora  found  her  mid  the  blossoms 

Beautiful  and  still. 
"Help!"  she  cried,  "ye  happy  dwellers 

In  the  purple  hill ! 


FR  A  N  CES  LAUGU  TON  MA  (JE.  G35 


"  Wrest  from  Death  the  fairest  being, 

Ever  missed  from  earth ; 
Let  the  flower  of  nymphs  inherit 

A  celestial  birth." 

See  the  shilling  ones  descending! 

All  Arcadia  gleams. 
First  Apollo  warms  her  forehead 

With  electric  beams: 

Bacchus  bathes  her  lips  with  nectar 

Worthy  of  the  god : 
Her  white  feet  Vertumnus  covers 

With  a  fragrant  sod. 

Lo !  the  radiant  transformation! 

One  by  one  unclose 
Tendrils,  leaves  and  snowy  petals 

Of  the  perfect  Rose ! 

All  the  nymphs'  remembered  graces 

Hover  round  the  flower, 
Sweetness,  tenderness,  and  passion 

Still  her  beauty's  dower. 

Soon  the  praise  of  the  Immortals 

To  a  richer  flush 
Warms  the  rose— her  colors  brighten 

To  Aurora's  blush; 

Then  the  nightingale  in  rapture 

Warbles  sweet  and  long, 
Till  a  hue  of  love's., vermilion 

Answers  to  his  song. 

"Bloom  forever,  nymph  enchanted!" 

The  Olympians  cry — 
"Kindred  both  to>arth  and  heaven, 

Thou  shalt  neveivdie!" 

Down  through  centuries  of  blossom 

Ages  of  delight, 
Still  the  royal  rose'of  summer 

Opens  on  our  sight. 

And  the  half-bewildered  fancy 
Through  the' fragrant  bowers 

Searches  for  the  haunting  mystery 
Of  this  flower  of  flowers. 


536  THE  POE T8  O F  MA INE. 

'Tis  the  nymph  so  deftly  hidden 

In  a  leafy  shrine, 
In  her  golden  heart  still  throbbing 

Memories  divine. 

Ever  silent,  ever  seeing, 
Every  heart  she  knows, — 

All  thy  love,  thy  hope,  thy  longing 
Whisper  to  the  Rose ! 


KINEO. 

THE    LEGEND    OF    MOOSEHEAD    LAKE. 

How  beautiful  the  morning  breaks 
Upon  the  King  of  mountain  lakes! 
The  forests,  far  as  eye  can  reach, 
Stretch  green  and  still  from  either  beach, 
And  leagues  away  the  waters  gleam 
Resplendent  in  the  sunrise  beam; 
Yet  feathery  vapors,  circling  slow, 
Wreathe  the  dark  brow  of  Kineo. 

The  hermit  Mount  in  sullen  scorn 
Repels  the  rosy  touch  of  morn, 
As  some  remorseful,  lonely  heart, 
From  human  pleasure  set  apart, 
Shrinks  even  from  the  tender  touch 
Of  pity,  lest  it  yield  too  much, 
So  speechless  still  to  friend  or  foe, 
Frowns  the  black  cliff  of  Kineo. 

Yet,  as  the  whispering  ripples  break 
From  the  still  surface  of  the  lake 
On  the  repellant  rocks,  they  seem 
To  murmur  low,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  mountain's  name,  and  day  by  day 
The  listening  breezes  bear  away 
A  memory  of  the  long  ago, 
A  sad,  wild  tale  of  Kineo. 

How  many  moons  can  no  man  say 
O'er  heaven's  blue  sea  have  sailed  away, 
Since  Kineo  and  his  fleet  canoe 
First  vanished  from  his  kindred's  view, 
Hunter  and  warrior  lithe  and  keen, 
No  brave  on  all  the  lake  was  seen 
Whose  wigwam  could  such  trophies  show 
As  the  green  roof  of  Kineo. 


Fit  A  NOES  LA  UGH  TON  MA  CK.  537 


But  wrathful,  jealous,  quick  to  strife, 
He  lived  a  passion-darkened  life; 
Even  Maquaso,  his  mother,  fled 
His  baneful  lodge  in  mortal  dread. 
Then  gathering  round  the  midnight  fire, 
The  old  man  spake  with  threatenings  dire: 
"  Out  from  our  councils  he  must  go, 
The  demon-haunted  Kineo!" 

In  sullen  and  remorseful  mood 

He  gave  himself  to  solitude. 

Up  the  wild  rocks  by  night  he  bore 

Of  all  he  prized  a  stealthy  store, — 

Flint,  arrows,  knife  and  birch.     Who  knows 

But  some  dark  lock  or  dead  wild  rose, 

The  phantom  of  an  untold  woe, 

Shared  the  lone  haunt  of  Kineo  ? 

The  mountain  was  his  own;  than  he 
None  other  dared  its  mystery; 
None  sought  to  meet  the  savage  glare 
Of  the  wild  hunter  in  his  lair: 
But  when  far  up  the  mountain-side 
Each  night  a  lurid  flame  they  spied, 
The  watchful  red  men  muttered  low, 
"There  hides  our  brother,  Kineo." 

Years  passed.     Among  the  storm-swept  pines 

From  moon  to  moon  lie  read  the  signs 

Of  blossom  and  decay.     He  knew 

The  eagle  that  familiar  flew 

About  his  path.     The  fearless  bird 

His  melancholy  accents  heard, 

But  glen  nor  shore  no  more  might  know 

The  swift,  still  step  of  Kineo, 

Save  once.     His  tribe  in  deadly  fray 
Had  battled  all  the  lowering  day, 
And  many  a  brave  Penobscot's  blood 
Was  mingling  in  the  lake's  pure  flood, 
When,  like  a  spectre,  through  the  gloom, 
With  gleaming  knife  and  eagle  plume, 
And  glance  that  burned  with  lurid  glow, 
Strode  the  bold  form  of  Kineo! 

A  hush  like  death — and  then  a  cry, 
Fierce  and  exultant,  pierced  the  sky! 
They  rallied  round  that  fiery  plume 
86 


538  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  smote  the  foe  with  hopeless  doom. 
But  when  the  grateful  warriors  fain 
Would  seek  his  well-known  face  again, 
Their  gifts  and  homage  to  bestow, 
Gone,  like  a  mist,  was  Kineo. 

They  saw  him  not,  but  from  that  hour 
They  bowed  before  his  wizard  power; 
His  watch-lire  grew  to  be  a  shrine 
Half-terrible  and  half-divine. 
None  ever  knew  when  death  drew  nigh, 
When  into  darker  mystery 
Of  cloud  above  or  deep  below 
Stole  the  sad  ghost  of  Kiueo. 

But  when  his  camp-tire  burned  no  more, 

The  solitary  mountain  bore 

His  name;  and  when  at  times  the  sky 

Grew  dark,  a  long,  despairing  sigh 

Down  the  dark  precipice  rolled 

And  tempest  terrible  foretold. 

The  fishers  feared  the  wind,  the  snow, 

The  lightning,  less  than  Kineo. 

Now  beautiful  the  morning  skies 
Look  011  this  forest  paradise; 
Fresh  voices,  loud  and  joyous,-  wake 
The  echoes  of  the  grand  old  lake : 
But  underneath  that  frowning  height 
The  shadow  and  the  spell  of  night 
Come  back;  the  oars  fall  still  and  slow, 
The  waves  sigh,  Peace  to  Kineo! 


THE  BOWDOIN  OAK. 

Planted  in  1802  by  George  Thorndike,  a  member  of  the  first  class  of  Bowdoin.  He  died 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  the  only  one  of  that  class  remembered  by  the  students  of  Bow 
doin  to-day. — Oration  of  T.  It.  Simonton. 

Ye  breezy  boughs  of  Bowdoin's  oak, 

Sing  low  your  summer  rune ! 
In  murmuring,  rhythmic  tones  respond 

To  every  breath  of  June; 

And  memories  of  the  joyous  youth, 

Through  all  your  songs  repeat, 
Who  plucked  the  acorn  from  the  twig 

Blown  lightly  to  his  feet, 


FRANCES  LAUGHTON  MACE.  539 


And  gayly  to  his  fellows  cried  : 

"  My  destiny  behold! 
This  seed  shall  keep  my  memory  green 

In  ages  yet  untold. 

"  I  trust  it  to  the  sheltering  sod, 

I  hail  the  promised  tree ! 
Sing,  unborn  oak,  through  long  decades, 

And  ever  sing  of  me!" 

By  cloud  and  sunbeam  nourished  well, 

The  tender  sapling  grew, 
Less  stalwart  than  the  rose  which  drank 

From  the  same  cup  of  dew ; 

But  royal  blood  was  in  its  veins, 

Of  true  Hellenic  line, 
And  sunward  reached  its  longing  arms 

With  impulses  divine. 

The  rushing  river  as  it  passed 
Caught  whispers  from  the  tree, 

And  each  returning  tide  brought  back 
The  answer  of  the  sea. 

Till  to  the  listening  groves  a  voice, 
New  and  harmonious,  spoke, 

And  from  a  throne  of  foliage  looked 
The  spirit  of  the  oak ! 

Then  birds  of  happiest  omen  built 

High  in  its  denser  shade, 
And  grand  responses  to  the  storms 

The  sounding  branches  made. 

Beneath  its  bower  the  bard  beloved 

His  budding  chaplet  wore, 
The  wizard  king  of  romance  dreamed 

His  wild,  enchanting  lore ; 

And  scholars,  musing  in  its  shade, 
Have  heard  their  country's  cry— 

Their  lips  gave  back—"  O  sweet  it  is 
For  native  land  to  die!  " 

With  hearts  that  burned  they  cast  aside 

These  peaceful  oaken  bays; 
The  hero's  blood-red  path  they  trod — 

Be  theirs  the  hero's  praise. 


540  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


O  though  Dodona's  voice  is  hushed, 

A  new,  intenser  flame 
Stirs  the  proud  oak  to  whisper  still 

Some  dear  illustrious  name! 

And  what  of  him  whose  happy  mood 
Foretold  this  sylvan  birth  ? 

In  boyhood's  prime  he  sank  to  rest; 
His  work  was  done  on  earth. 

Brief  was  his  race,  and  light  his  task. 

For  immortality 
His  only  tribute  to  the  years — 

The  planting  of  a  tree. 

Sing  low,  green  oak,  thy  summer  rune, 

Sing  valor,  love  and  truth, 
Thyself  a  fair,  embodied  thought, 

A  living  dream  of  truth. 


BAR  HARBOR. 

The  island  glitters  on  the  bay, 

Pride  of  the  summer  sea, 
And  sky  and  wave  exultant  homage  pay 

Her  blooming  royalty. 

The  harbor  gleams  with  myriad  snowy  sail 

That  wait  her  queenly  will; 
She  wraps  the  mist  about  her  like  a  veil, 

And  every  oar  is  still. 

But  as  the  sun  outpours  his  ardent  ray, 

Afar  her  beauties  show ; 
Bright  awnings,  snowy  tents,  pavilions  gay, 

With  life  and  lustre  glow. 

No  hiding-place  is  this  for  mournful  fate, 

No  sorrow  here  is  guest; 
These  summer  palaces  are  dedicate 

To  pleasure  and  to  rest. 

Here  Fashion  plumes  her  brilliant,  airy  wing, 

And  brightens  sea  and  shore, — 
A  rainbow-colored,  transitory  thing, 

Now  here,  now  seen  no  more. 


FRANCES  LAUGIITON  MACE.  641 


Pleased  with  the  brief,  exotic  revelry 

Of  this  ephemeral  train, 
In  proud  delight  the  city  of  the  sea 

Assumes  imperial  reign; 

While  in  his  solitude,  serene  and  high, 

The  Island  Genius  sits, 
Unconscious  of  the  rose-winged  butterfly 

Which  o'er  his  footstool  flits. 


ONLY  WAITING. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown; 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  the  heart  once  full  of  day, 
Till  the  dawn  of  heaven  is  breaking 

Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home, 
For  the  summer  time  hath  faded 

And  the  autumn  winds  are  come. 
Quickly  reapers,  gather  quickly 

The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart, 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 

Open  wide  the  mystic  gate, 
At  whose  feet  I  long  have  lingered, 

Weary,  poor  and  desolate; 
Even  now  I  hear  their  footsteps 

And  their  voices  far  away, 
If  they  call  me  I  am  waiting, 

Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown: 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown; 
Then  from  out  the  field  of  darkness 

Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 
By  whose  light  my  soul  will  gladly 

Wing  her  passage  to  the  skies. 


542  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Stephen 


Bom  in  Saco,  Jan.  22,  1836,  and  educated  in  the  schools  there,  and  at  Gould's  Academy 
In  Bethel,  under  instruction  of  Dr.  K.  T.  True.  Removed  to  Boston,  Mass.,  where  he 
•was  engaged  in  business  for  several  years.  Returned  to  Saco  in  1872,  and  was  elected 
Superintendent  and  Librarian  of  York  Institute,  which  position  he  soon  after  resigned  to 
accept  a  similar  one  in  the  Public  Library  in  Portland,  Avhich  position  he  still  holds.  Js 
editor  and  publisher  of  the  Maine  Historical  and  Cenealof/ical  hrcftrflrr,  a  quarterly 
magazine  started  in  1884  in  connection  with  library  wrork,  and  is  still  continued.  Poems 
from  his  pen  have  been  published  in  various  papers  in  Maine  and  Massachusetts. 


ARBOR  DAY. 

Shall  we  welcome  this  day,  a  day  for  tree-planting, 

Can  we  beautify  home,  can  we  benefit  man 
By  bringing  about  us  these  things  so  enchanting 

From  the  highlands  and  dells  ?    Echo  answers,— "We  can." 

A  house  without  windows,  it  must  be  a  prison; 

So  a  land  without  trees  a  lone  desert  must  be. 
A  heart  that's  all  gladness  is  one  without  reason; 

O  give  us  the  sunshine,  but  send  with  it  a  tree. 

Can  you  show  me  a  home,  no  vine  by  its  window, 
No  tree  by  its  threshold,  and  no  lodge  for  a  bird? 

Then  I  may  show  you  one  with  less  light  than  shadow, 
Where  affection  is  not,  and  no  melody  heard. 

Can  trees  by  the  wayside,  where  the  sunlight  searches, 
Refresh  us  with  coolness  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 

The  green  of  the  maples,  the  tasseled  white  birches, 
The  graceful  elm-branches  that  wave  over  our  way  ? 

Are  they  not  beautiful,  trees  of  our  fatherland, 
Can  we  help  loving  them  as  a  part  of  our  homes  ? 

Temples  to  worship  in,  made  by  a  master  hand, 
Architect  wonderful !  steeples,  arches  and  domes. 

A  walk  in  the  forest  may  teach  us  a  story, 

Better  learned  from  the  trees  than  from  cumbersome  books ; 
They'll  preach  us  a  sermon,  they'll  show  us  the  glory 

Of  the  Almighty's  hand  in  their  straight  lines  and  crooks. 

By  their  powerful  trunks  they  proclaim  His  praises; 

He  smiles  in  their  blossoms,  which  are  full  of  His  love, 
While  the  tiniest  bush  its  silent  voice  raises, 

And  calls  our  attention  to  its  care  from  above. 

The  whispering  leaflets  will  talk  of  His  mercies, 

And  the  ripening  fruit  our  thanksgivings  shall  bring; 

The  twittering  birds  who  inhabit  their  branches, 
His  bountiful  giving  and  His  goodness  will  sing. 


STEPHEN  MARION  WATSON.  543 


Then  make  home  attractive  with  trees  and  with  flowers; 

Plant  them  in  gardens,  set  them  out  011  the  lawn ; 
Bring  vines  from  the  hedges,  and  train  them  in  bowers; 

Put  where  you  may  see  them  at  evening  and  morn. 

We  soon  love  to  watch  them  develop  their  beauty, 
They  are  our  companions,  who  deceive  nor  annoy; 

Then  to  cultivate  them  let's  make  it  our  duty, 
"For  a  beautiful  thing  is  forever  a  joy." 

O  come,  little  children,  away  to  the  woodland, 
And  select  each  a  tree  to  be  called  by  your  name ; 

Transplant  to  the  school-yard,  with  your  own  careful  hand, 
A  monument  to  you  when  you've  risen  to  fame. 

It  shall  stand  there  silent  in  the  long  hereafter, 
But  pointing  e'er  upward  to  the  land  of  the  soul, 

Where  we  and  our  classmates,  whose  romping  and  laughter 
We  loved,  passed  long  since  and  found  a  happier  goal. 


MY  CHUM. 

There  are  jewels  in  his  heart,  which  you  have  never  seen; 
There  is  music  in  his  soul,  which  flows  our  own  between; 
Love  sparkles  in  his  eyes  and  glows  upon  his  lips; 
A  charm  about  him  lies,  e'en  in  his  finger-tips. 

There  are  treasures  in  his  thoughts,  unknown  except  to  me ; 
There  is  comfort  in  his  presence,  no  one  else  can  see; 
His  touch  enchants  me  so,  with  joy  my  poor  heart  thrills; 
I  cannot  let  him  go,  the  thought  my  pleasure  kills. 

There  is  wisdom  in  his  words,  I  know,  to  hear  him  speak; 
There  is  fragrance  in  his  breath,  when  wafted  to  my  cheek; 
I  cannot  cast  him  off,  my  heart  none  else  can  fill ; 
My  friends  may  jeer  and  scoff,  I'll  love  him  better  still. 

There  is  sinew  in  his  arms,  I  feel  it  in  his  grasp; 
There  is  swiftness  in  his  feet,  my  willing  hand  to  clasp; 
He  comes  to  me  in  dreams  to  bless  me  in  my  sleep, 
My  couch  a  heaven  seems  while  I  his  presence  keep. 

There  is  kindness  in  his  air,  it  beams  upon  his  face; 
There  is  beauty  in  his  form,  in  every  turn  a  grace; 

0  my  indulgent  eyes  no  fault  in  him  can  see; 

My  love  I'll  not  disguise,  though  I  may  censured  be. 

There  are  long  and  weary  hours,  when  absent  from  his  smile; 
There  are  happy  fleeting  days,  when  with  him  all  the  while; 

1  watch  to  see  him  come,  none  else  will  do  instead, 
He  is  hiy  faithful  Chum,  good-hearted,  honest  Fred. 


544  77/7?  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


F  Rev.  William  W.  Marsh  was  born  in  Orono,  Feb.  12,  1830.  He  possessed  a  delicate  con 
stitution,  quick  and  rare  sensibility,  and  a  devout,  and  serious  nature.  He  was  admitted 
to  membership  in  the  East  Maine  Conference  in  I860,  and  continued  in  the  ministry  until 
his  death,  at  Brewer,  Me.,  June  18,  188G.  His  high  character  won  respect;  his  warm  sym 
pathies,  affection;  his  rare  talents,  of  a  poetic  and  philosophic  order  admiration.  His 
poems  have  not  yet  been  collected  into  a  volume;  but  they  are  worthy  of  preservation, 
being  rich  in  the  essential  elements  of  true  poetry.  Among  his  longer  pieces  are  "  The 
Aspen's  Story,"  "  Yule-Tide,"  "  The  Temptation,"  etc.  His  memory  is  very  precious  to 
those  who  knew  him  personally.  His  grave  was  made  in  Mount  Hope. 


"THE  TIDE  IS  OUT." 

The  tide  is  out!  and  faint  and  far 

The  lessening  ripples  play; 
A  strange,  swift  loss  of  affluence  falls 

Upon  our  sunny  bay. 
And  stranded  kelp,  and  tangled  weeds, 

And  brown  wet  wastes  of  sand, 
With  gaunt,  white  rocks,  and  shallow  pools, 

Disfigure  all  the  strand. 

And  yet,  an  hour  agone,  I  passed; 

What  wealth  of  wave  was  here: 
With  all  its  creeks  and  inlets  full, 

The  bay  lay  broad  and  clear. 
Its  fresh  green  isles  seemed  anchored  deep, 

Lapped  to  their  grasses'  edge; 
And  deep— the  blue  sea's  secret— slept 

The  weed  and  wave-worn  ledge. 

0  ebbing  tide  and  naked  shores ! 
O  shrunken,  shallow  bay ! 

How  sharp  and  true,  the  type  ye  bring, 

Of  my  soul's  gauge  to-day. 
And  yet,  but  yesterday,  I  knew 

Its  farthest  banks  were  brimmed; 
And  fair  green  isles,  in  amber  light, 

On  its  clear  depths  were  limned. 

1  deemed  I  drew,  in  thought  and  word, 
From  unguessed  depths  of  power; 

And  those  still  depths  flashed  bright  with  gems 

In  that  full-flooded  hour. 
But  ah  !  to-day  the  tide  is  out: 

Behold  these  tangled  weeds ; 
These  bare  brown  shores  and  weltering  pools 

Reveal  my  soul's  great  needs. 


WILLIAM  W.  MARSH.  54f5 


O  fair,  bright  bay!  thy  wealth  of  wave 

Wells  not  from  thine  own  springs; 
Nor  leaps  it  in  from  mountain  streams, 

Fresh  as  the  morning's  wings. 
And  thou,  who  mak'st  its  ebb  and  flow, 

The  truth  is,  too,  for  thee  : 
The  tide  which  fills  thy  deepest  deeps 

Flows  from  a  far-off  sea. 

O  shoreless  Sea !    O  deep  of  Love ! 

Thou  tide  of  life  to  me, 
Flow  through  the  channels  of  my  life, 

With  fuller  tide  and  free ; 
Ebb  thou  no  more  from  out  my  soul; 

Leave  no  low,  weltering  shore ; 
But  grant,  through  all  my  being's  reach, 

A  flood-tide  evermore. 


"DO  YOU  LOVE  ME?" 

"Do  you  love  me,  papa,  do  you  ?" 

But  I  pause  not  now  to  hear; 
And  my  pen  but  speeds  the  faster, 

As  the  low  voice  strikes  my  ear. 
"Do  you  love  me,  papa,  do  you?" 

Comes  the  eager  plea  again; 
And  the  clear  voice's  plaintive  quiver 

Bears  an  undertone  of  pain. 

Frank  blue  eyes  are  full  upon  me; 

Tender  mouth,  so  soft  and  red; 
Golden  locks  like  autumn  sunshine 

Bound  the  little  shapely  head ; 
And  a  loving,  wistful  longing 

On  the  upturned  baby-face ; 
All  the  while,  the  dimpled  fingers 

Fondle  mine  with  baby  grace. 

"Do  you  love  me  ? "     Precious  darling ! 

And  I  fling  the  pen  away, 
As  I  clasp  the  living  sunbeam 

That  is  shining  through  my  day; 
Yes,  I  love  each  curve  and  dimple; 

But  through  every  passing  whim 
Glad  I  trace  thy  warm  heart's  loving, 

Welling  upward  like  a  hymn. 


546  THE  P OE  TS  O  F  MA  1 N  E. 


So  I  hold  thee  close,  and,  musing, 

Read  for  thee  the  hours  to  come ; 
And  I  care  not  in  my  dreaming, 

Though  the  oracles  are  dumb. 
Little  maiden,  in  thy  loving 

Waits  for  thee  a  world  of  bliss, 
And  the  sunshine  of  thy  spirit 

Shall  find  heaven  in  a  kiss. 

Love-lined  nests  shall  give  thee  shelter; 

Only,  can  they  last  for  aye  ? 
Thou  shalt  find  the  fireside  idols; 

God  forbid  they  prove  but  clay: 
O  that  through  all  love  and  losing 

God  would  keep  thee  as  to-day; 
So,  thy  rose-huecl  world  about  thee, 

Youth  might  flit,  but  peace  would  stay. 


/mtte. 


Miss  Curtis,  better  known  in  literature  as  "  Hope  Harvey,"  under  which  title  she  ha» 
gained  marked  favor,  was  born  in  Garland,  Me.,  Feb.  18,  183G,  the  daughter  of  George 
and  Louisa  S.  Curtis.  She  completed  her  early  education  at  Gorham  Seminary,  since 
which  time  failing  health  has  caused  serious  limitations  to  her  ambitious  nature.  She 
has,  however,  contributed  for  several  years  to  leading  periodicals,  both  in  verse  and" 
prose,  the  former  dating  from  her  thirteenth  year,  and  receiving  much  appreciation, 
because  real,  and  inwrought  with  her  most  sacred  heart-experiences.  Her  prose  articles, 
"half-sermon,  half  essay,"  as  one  literary  critic  has  said,  are  of  a  distinctly  religious 
nature,  appealing  to  the  higher  emotions,  but  when  stirred  to  a  lighter  vein,  there  is  a 
compound  of  humor  and  pathos  of  genuine  interest.  Though  an  invalid,  her  influence, 
sympathy  and  helpfulness,  in  her  own  family,  as  also  in  church  interests  and  outside 
relations,  has  proved  invaluable.  But  no  appreciation  is  so  sweet  to  her  as  that  which 
comes  from  some  weary  woman,  who  says  of  her  words  of  cheer,  "  They  rest  me."  One, 
referring  to  her  intense  sufferings,  says,  "  She  is  the  persistent  violet  which  blooms  out 
with  every  ray  of  sunshine,  and  this  requires  a  courage  and  a  philosophy  that  stamps  her 
a  heroine!"  She  has  one  sister,  also  a  writer  under  the  pen-name  of  "  Charity  Snow." 
Their  pastor  has  said,  "  1  always  go  away  from  a  call  on  them  feeling  better  than  when  I 
came.  They  are  an  inspiration  to  me  "  In  their  literary  labors,  and  in  their  love,  these 
sisters  twain  have  frequently  been  compared  to  Alice  and  Phebe  Cary. 


THE  OLD  MAID'S  CHILDREN. 

The  old  maid  sits  by  the  chimney  wide, 

In  the  open  firelight's  glow, 
Where  the  birchen  bark  into  torches  rolls, 

And  the  red  coals  gleam  below: 
Yet  her  eyes  see  not  the  changeful  blaze, 
But  only  the  light  of  the  olden  days. 

She  checks  a  sob  for  the  lover  true 
Who  died  e'er  their  wedding  morn, 


SUSAN  OAK  CURTIS.  547 

But  she  moans  and  weeps  with  a  bitter  cry 

For  her  children  that  never  were  born; 
For  the  two  who  neither  came  nor  went, 
Who  ne'er  from  the  Father  of  Souls  were  sent. 

Yet  oft  she  reaches  with  empty  arms, 

And  gathers  them  close  to  her  breast, 
And  showers  kisses  on  each  dear  face, 

And  lulls  them  to  evening  rest. 
Her  grief  is  gone  while  she  holds  them  fast, 
Ah!  God  of  love,  let  the  sweet  dream  last! 

The  little  children  are  older  grown, 

As  they  hover  near  her  to-night, 
And  the  worn  heart  bounds,  while  the  pale  lips  smile 

At  the  shadows  tall  in  the  light, 
As  they  stand  the  maid  and  the  fire  between; 
And  Claude  is  twenty,  and  Clare  is  sixteen. 

The  boy  is  manly,  and  bright,  and  brave, 

The  girl  like  a  snow-wreath  is  fair, 
And  the  old  maid  gazes  with  yearning  heart, 

Till  the  spell  is  broken  with  shock  and  start, 
And  the  bonds  of  life  are  wrenched  apart, 

And  she  passes  away  with  a  prayer; 
"  O  Christ,  of  a  maiden  mother*the  child, 
Canst  thou  answer  in  Heaven  my  longings  wild  ?" 

Still  arid  white  on  the  cold  hearth-stone, 

They  find  the  old  maid  in  the  dawn, 
While  her  phantom  children  with  radiance  rife, 
Both  comfort  and  grief  of  her  poor  lone  life, 

Together,  forever,  are  gone. 
And  the  birchen  flames  are  faded  away, 
And  the  ashes  of  olden  fires  are  gray. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 
Who  makes  the  Holy  Grail  his  quest, 
Can  never  hope  abiding  rest, 
TJntil  he  seeks  both  Grail  and  Guest. 

The  Guest  declares,"!  tell  to  thee 

If  thou  art  able,  thou  shalt  see, 

And  take,  and  drink,  the  cup  with  Me. 

"Needless  to  mark  the  angel's  trail, 
Useless  o'er  mountain  meres  to  sail, 
If  thou  wouldst  find  the  Holy  Grail. 


548  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


"But  wait  with  me,  and  learn  the  whole 

That  I  have  known  of  bitter  dole, 

Which  wounds  the  heart  and  rends  the  soul. 

"  Canst  thou  partake  my  fire's  baptism 
And  sink  to  my  dread  woe's  abysm 
To  share  with  me  the  blessed  chrism  ? 

"Then  for  such  gracious  guerdon  meet, 
At  thy  poor  board  I'll  take  my  seat, 
And  quaff  with  thee  the  Sangreal  sweet. 

0  suffering  Christ!  O  sacred  Guest! 

To  taste  the  Grail  thy  lips  have  pressed, 

1  haste  upon  the  holy  quest. 


MY  CROSS. 
My  cross  is  heavy,  Lord!  I  try  to  bow, 

And  maekly  bear  the  load  that  seems  so  great; 
T  tremble,  faint,  and  weakly  stumble  now 
Beneath  its  fearful  weight. 

The'flesh,  unwilling,  fain  would  shun  the  pain, 

And  strives  to  fling  aside  the  chafing  cross; 
Failing  to  count  the  burden  certain  gain, 
And  all  things  else  but  loss. 

My  cross  offends  my  pleasure-loving  eyes, 

When  on  it  turns  my  frighted  gaze  attent; 
It  drags  me  down  when  I  essay  to  rise, 
Laden  with  dark  portent. 

With  smiles  and  flowers  I  wreathe  my  hideous  cross, 

From  others'  sight  its  terrors  hiding  well; 
And  why  beneath  its  woes  I  writhe  and  toss, 
The  world  can  never  tell. 

O  let  me  rest,  with  cross  upon  the  ground ! 

Again  to  lift  it  up  were  far  too  much. 
Its  rugged  splinters  may  my  soft  hands  wound; 
I  grieve,  I  loathe  to  touch. 

The  Master  speaks  with  low  and  tender  voice: 

•'  If  thou  wouldst  truly  my  disciple  be, 
Thou  must  take  up  thy  cross  from  loving  choice, 
And  bear  it  after  Me. 

"Despised,  rejected,  weary,  worn  and  sad, 

I  gladly  bore  my  cruel  cross  for  thee ; 
Hast  thou  no  gratitude  ?    Art  thou  not  glad 
To  lift  one  load  for  Me  ? 


1}  AN  I  EL   WEBSTEE  PEA  BODY.  549 

"In  joy  and  hope  thy  burden  place  across 

Thy  willing  shoulders.     Never  lay  it  down, 
Till  at  heaven's  portals  thou  shalt  change  thy  cross 
For  thy  long-waiting  crown.1" 

Saviour,  if  I  Thy  crown  of  love  may  gain, 

No  more  I  reckon  woful  labor  loss; 
But  take,  rejoicing  in  the  constant  pain, 
My  hidden,  hated  cross. 

Dear  Lord,  forgive  my  sinful,  foolish  fears, 

And  give  me  daily  strengthening  grace,  1  pray; 
And  one  thing  more  I  ask  with  humble  tears, 
Take  not  my  cros.s  away! 


jjnnul  |p»6s%  jj&ibotln. 

Daniel  W.  Peabody  was  born  in  Gilead,  March  H,  1836.  '  His  parents  were  John  Tar- 
bell  and  Mercy  Ingalls  (BurbanlO  Peabody.  The  family  removed  to  Gorhain,  N.  IL,  as 
pioneers  in  an  almost  unsettled  township.  The  few  inhabitants  early  sought  lor  their 
children  the  advantages  of  education.  The  rude  school-house,  which  served  also  as  the 
place  of  religious  worship,  was  to  the  subject  of  this  sketch  like  a  sacred  temple.  He 
was  a  precocious  scholar,  and  while  a  mere  boy  entertained  his  associates  with  many 
poetical  effusions.  This  talent  was  greatly  stimulated  by  a  bright  school-boy  friend, 
who  often  competed  with  him  in  poetic  contests.  He  fitted  for  college  at  the  Gould's 
and  Fryeburg  Academies,  and  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  the  class  of  1859.  He 
was  selected  as  the  Class  Poet  for  the  class  day  exercises  at  commencement.  After  read 
ing  law  with  his  uncle,  Judge  Robert  I.  Burbank,  of  Boston,  and  attending  for  a  time  the 
Cambridge  Law  School,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Boston,  Nov.  2G,  18G2.  He  was  a 
year  later  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  Department  of  the  Interior  at  Washington, 
and  subsequently  promoted  to  be  Examiner  of  Pensions.  He  removed  to  Nashville, 
Term.,  soon  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profes 
sion.  He  was  City  Attorney  for  Nashville  for  the  years  1808  and  186t).  Gov.  Brownlow 
appointed  him  Circuit  Judge  in  that  State,  but  he  declined  the  appointment,  and  became 
Collector  of  U.  S.  Internal  Revenue,  May  I,  18G9.  This  office  he  resigned  to  accept  that 
of  Assistant  U.  S.  District  Attorney.  He  was  one  of  the  Presidential  Electors  of  the 
State  of  Tennessee  in  18G8,  and  aided  by  his  vote  the  election  of  Gen.  Grant  for  his  first 
term  as  President.  He  married  Miss  Mary  IT.  Saltmarsh,  daughter  of  Dr.  Stephen  Salt- 
marsh,  of  Lexington.  Mass.  They  had  two  children,  Henry  Ernest,  and  Mary  Leslie. 
He  died  at  Augusta,  Me.,  April  15,  1879,  from  paralysis  of  the  heart. 


LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 

AN   EXTRACT. 

Peaceful  the  scene.     The  summer  glory  falls 
In  dreamy  shadows  on  the  mountain  walls, 
That  lift  forever  ramparts  stern  and  staid 
Round  the  sweet  valley  where  our  brave  are  laid. 
In  focal  power  the  rnys  of  memory  blend, 
And  to  all  hearts  a  common  impulse  lend. 
Do  I  misjudge  that  I  may  name  a  theme, 
And  each  may  quaff  from  out  the  lucid  stream 
Of  rich  suggestion  which  the  terms  inspire, 


65<J  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Feeling,  hope,  memory,  aspiration  fire 

The  thoughts  that  rush  far  onward  and  away 

From  the  dull  measure  of  my  flagging  lay  ? 

'T  is  love  of  country.     With  magnetic  might 

It  moves  mankind,  as  storm- winds  in  their  flight 

Stir  the  wide  ocean,  till  its  waves  ascend 

And  with  the  clouds  their  tossing  spray-drops  blend. 

It  moves  all  ranks,  conditions,  grades  of  men 

As,  all-embracing  in  his  piercing  ken, 

The  sun  beholds  and  brightens  with  his  beams 

While  o'er  the  world  his  flood  of  blessings  streams. 

Ay !  love  of  country.     From  the  distant  source, 

Whence  history  issued  on  its  splendid  couree, 

No  other  cause  so  moved  to  deeds  sublime 

That  gem  the  pages  of  the  book  of  time. 

No  other  cause  so  fired  the  soul  of  man 

To  march,  a  hero,  in  the  foremost  van 

Of  conquering  armies,  or  to  give  his  life 

To  seal  his  faith  in  unavailing  strife. 

It  nerved  the  courage  of  that  Spartan  son, 

By  clouds  of  arrows  curtained  from  the  sun, 

Holding  the  legions  of  the  foe  at  bay 

Through  the  slow  hours  that  filled  a  deathless  day; 

And  of  another,  on  his  spotless  shield, 

As  he  lay  dying  on  a  glorious  field, 

Tracing  the  words,  at  life's  fast  ebbing  flood, 

"  Sparta  has  conquered,"  with  his  flowing  blood. 

The  Koman  soldier  felt  its  impulse  thrill 

His  inmost  soul  and  all  his  being  fill; 

And  so  in  might  his  conquering  flag  was  furled 

On  the  far  confines  of  u  subject  world. 

"  The  golden  lilies,"  blazoned  on  the  fold 

Of  the  French  banner,  made  her  veterans- bold 

To  climb  the  Alps  and  beard  the  Russian  Czar 

Entrenched  by  winter  'neath  the  Northern  star, 

And  even  die,  stricken  by  war's  dread  chance, 

Whispering  the  watchword  in  their  "Vive  la  France." 

The  earlier  Prussian,  under  Frederick,  won 

In  the  same  cause.     The  deadly  needle-gun 

Was  raised,  in  latter  years,  to  win  the  fame 

Now  proudly  resting  on  the  German  name. 

Why  seek  the  fields  of  olden  story  through  ? 
Before  our  eyes  a  silent  scene  we  view, 


DANIEL   WEBSTER  PEABODY.  551 


From  wliich  a  light  upon  tlie  theme  is  cast 

Brighter  than  beams  from  all  the  storied  past. 

These  ordered  graves,  these  fragrant  waiting  flowers, 

Offerings  prepared  by  summer's  sun  and  showers, 

Soon  to  be  strewn  upon  these  grass-clad  graves, 

In  which  a  nation  laid  its  martyred  braves, 

Utter  a  voice  loud  as  the  thunder's  swell, 

"The  patriot  dead,  who  loved  their  country  well!" 

"'Tis  sweet  and  fair,"  the  Koman  poet  sung, 

"  To  die  for  native  land.''     The  words  have  rung 

In  every  age,  in  every  form  of  speech, 

And  still  the  truth  with  power  and  beauty  teach. 

Who  does  not  feel  it  in  this  presence  now  ? 

In  tear-dimmed  eye,  on  sad  and  pensive  brow, 

I  read  the  deathless  eulogy  and  praise 

Of  these  who  fell  in  battle's  fiery  maze, 

Or  turning  dying  eyes  011  sombre  wall 

Of  hospital,  obeyed  the  Master's  call, 

Resigning  all  that  mortals  have  to  give, 

That  a  free  nation  might  not  cease  to  live. 

The  Persian  poets  taught  each  tiny  flower, 

That  flings  its  perfume  on  the  summer  hour, 

Draws  its  young  life,  when  first  its  rootlets  start 

From  a  pure  drop  that  warmed  a  hero's  heart. 

The  Eastern  myth  embalms  for  every  clime 

Beauty  and  meaning  to  the  end  of  time. 

Peerless,  in  all  the  wide  variety  of  things, 

Flowers  rank  confessed.     The  journeying  season  brings 

Nothing  so  perfect,  exquisite,  complete 

Sense  of  the  beautiful  on  earth  to  meet. 

So  among  men  the  hero  foremost  stands; 

His  courage  honor  from  mankind  commands; 

And  seeking  emblems,  while  he  lives  for  praise, 

They  twine  the  flower-wreath  arid  bestrew  his  ways 

With  flowers,  and  when  he  falls  asleep, 

Flowers  on  his  grave  their  soothing  'tendance  keep. 

Let  old  and  young  approach  with  solemn  tread 

The  silent  city  of  the  gathered  dead, 

And  beauty  join,  with  steps  of  maiden  grace, 

To  strew  with  flowers  the  soldiers'  resting  place. 

Then,  as  their  fragrance  fills  the  encircling  air, 

Memory  and  hope  shall  equal  interest  share, 

And  crowding  come  and  pass  in  swift  review 

The  vivid  scenes  these  sleeping  brave  ones  knew. 

Scenes  that  were  shared  by  comrades,  who  to-day 


553  THE  POET  IS  OF  MAINE. 

Survive  to  join  these  votive  gifts  to  pay, 
Bound  to  the  sleepers  by  the  closest  tie, 
Sharers  in  all  things  but  to  grandly  die. 
Kin  in  the  lineage  which  unites  the  brave 
In  bonds  uiisevered  by  the  silent  grave. 


I  read  the  hope,  in  that  brave  men  to-day 
Join  in  this  service  honors  meet  to  pay, 
Who  met  in  lines  opposed  in  battle's  hour, 
Sternly  exerting  every  martial  power, 
Under  two  flags,  the  rescued  and  the  lost, 
Learning  the  price  the  strifes  of  brothers  cost. 
Not  long  delays  the  happy  hastening  day, 
The  nation  chooses  as  a  time  to  lay 
Its  floral  offerings,  with  no  partial  thought, 
Under  which  flag  the  sleeping  hero  fought; 
The  kindling  memories  of  an  earlier  day 
Melting  the  latter  enmity  and  rage  away. 
And  from  the  contest,  the  colossal  strife, 
That  tried  each  fibre  of  the  nation's  life, 
There  shall  uprise  more  perfect  bud  and  flower, 
More  clear  assertion  of  the  nation's  power, 
As  England's  sons  in  prosperous  peace  combined, 
When  York  and  Lancaster  their  roses  twined. 


Let  hope,  prophetic  of  the  future,  tell 
Of  the  great  nation  which  we  love  so  well, 
The  fairest  structure  e'er  by  man  designed, 
The  shrine  of  freedom  and  aspiring  mind ; 
Its  base  in  blood  of  martyred  heroes  laid, 
On  truth  and  justice  its  firm  pillars  stayed. 
No  earthly  power  shall  ever  overthrow 
Their  solid  weight,  nor  twining  ivy  grow 
Upon  their  ruins,  while  the  stars  shall  rise 
And  pass  in  beauty  up  the  eastern  skies. 
So  shall  it  stand.     Far  centuries  to  be 
Its  towering  form  of  beauty  yet  shall  see, 
And  waving  o'er  it,  in  the  balmy  air, 
The  starry  banner  still  unstained  and  fair, 
And  the  free  breezes,  as  they  softly  play, 
Smoothing  its  folds,  shall  to  the  world  display 
The  stars  still  pouring  on  the  raptured  sight 
Their  blended  beams  of  constellated  light. 


EDWARD  NO  YE  8  POMEROY.  553 


(jjdiviird 

Rev.  Edward  N.  Pomeroy  was  born  in  Yarmouth,  Me.,  April  6,  1836,  and  was  educated 
at  the  Portland  High  School,  1848-55.  He  was  at  Dartmouth  College,  Hanover,  N.  H., 
1855-5G;  Bowdoiii  College,  1856-57,  one  year  each.  Served  in  Union  Army  three  years, 
1802-65.  Studied  theology  at  Union  Theological  Seminary,  New  York  City,  from  1865  to 
18G8,  and  has  been  a  Congregational  Trinitarian  minister  since  1868.  Mr.  Pomeroy  has 
been  pastor  of  the  Union  (Congregational)  Church  at  Taunton,  Mass.,  since  1882.  He  is 
an  able  and  vigorous  writer  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  occasionally  contributes  to 
Harper's,  The  Century,  and  other  magazines,  and  to  religious  publications.  His  sister, 
Rachel  Pomeroy,  now  deceased,  is  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume. 


THE  GRAVE-YARD  AT  SIPPICAX. 

Come  to  tliis  spot  among  the  rocks  and  pines, — 
This  hidden  acre  thou  hast  ne'er  beheld 

Unless  persuaded  by  a  poet's  lines, 
Or  by  the  circumstance  of  death  compelled. 

The  summer  suns  pour  down  their  fervid  heat 

On  stunted  herbage  and  a  sterile  soil: 
The  storms  of  winter  hurl  their  stinging  sleet, 

And  the  hurt  trees  in  agony  recoil. 

These  modest  monuments  no  great  names  bear; 

Thou  tread' st  not,  traveler,  on  a  hero  here; 
Yet  these  were  strong  to  do  and  brave  to  dare, 

And  filled  their  places  on  the  busy  sphere. 

They  and  the  sea  were  surely  kith  and  kin, 
And  o'er  these  graves,  although  they  never  stop, 

Marauding  sea-fogs  that  come  driving  in, 
A  tribute  from  their  salty  plunder  drop. 

Near  this  lone  nook  their  labor  was  not  done: 
Through  calms  and  storms,  from  port  to  port  they  ran 

Or  from  the  tropic  to  the  frozen  zone, 
They  sought  and  slaughtered  the  leviathan. 

Their  virtues  or  their  vices  who  shall  tell, 
Or  what  their  harbor,  since  life's  sails  are  furled ! 

Remote  from  strife  and  tumult  they  sleep  well, 
"  Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world." 

Such  simple  histories  deep  lessons  teach,— 

Who  seeketh  wisdom  let  him  pause  and  learn,— 

That  in  this  plan  God  hath  remembered  each, 
And  each  he  satisfieth  in  his  turn: 

That  death,  relentless,  still  is  not  unkind, 
The  vexed  and  weary  to  compel  to  rest; 

Nor  mother  earth  in  her  affection  blind 
To  call  her  crying  children  to  her  breast. 

37 


554  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


jjehn  Jf,  ^jtrnird  Jjjtnhing. 

Mrs  H.  N.  Jenkins  was  the  (laughter  of  the  late  John  and  Jane  Jerrard,  of  Plymouth, 
Me.  and  was  born  Sept.  9.  183G.  Her  parents  were  among  the  pioneer  settlers  of  that 
section  of  Penobscot  County,  and  began  life  in  the  forest  on  one  of  the  rugged,  but  pict 
uresque  hills  of  Plymouth.  Here  they  made  a  pleasant  home,  and  reared  a  family  of 
eight  children,  of  whom  Helen  was  the  sixth.  John  Jerrard,  a  man  well  known  in  this 
part  of  the  State  for  his  sterling  worth  and  business  capacity,  was  for  many  years  quite 
extensively  engaged  in  lumbering  on  the  Penobscot  waters,  where  he  acquired  a  compe 
tency.  Highly  appreciative  of  all  that  was  best  in  literature,  he  hoped  to  give  all  his 
children  the  advantages  of  a  good  education;  but  heavy  losses,  later  in  life,  limited  the 
educational  privileges  of  the  younger  children,  and  thus  blighted  the  dearest  hope  of 
Helen  Jerrard's  girlhood.  A  lover  of  books,  and  fond  of  study,  she  made  the  most  of 
such  opportunities  as  she  had.  She  studied  at  home,  and  read  the  works  of  the  best 
authors,  among  whom  Scott  was  her  favorite.  The  family  were  accustomed  to  read 
aloud,  and  talk  over  every  interesting  topic.  In  those  years,  some  of  the  most  eminent 
clergymen  of  the  State,  in  their  journeys  by  carriage  through  the  country,  frequently 
visited  the  home  of  the  Jerrards,  and  furnished  many  a  rich,  intellectual  treat  for  the 
eager  listeners  at  the  fireside:  thus  helping  the  genial,  intelligent  father,  and  the  quiet, 
home-loving  mother,  to  till  the  hearts  of  their  children  with  reverent  love  for  the  Great 
All-Father,  and  with  a  desire  for  the  highest  culture.  In  March,  1858,  Helen  Jerrard 
married  F.  I).  Jenkins,  then  of  Bangor,  afterward,  for  many  years,  a  successful  mer 
chant  in  Pittsfield,  Me.  In  1871,  his  health  failing,  he  retired  from  business,  and  the 
family  have  since  lived  on  a  farm  in  Kenduskeag,  Me.  Mrs.  Jenkins  has  devoted  her 
whole  life  to  her  family.  Eight  children,  six  of  whom  are  now  living,  have  been  tenderly 
cared  for  by  this  loving,  self  sacrificing  mother.  From  her  childhood,  encompassed  by 
a  diffidence  and  reticence  which  she  has  never  been  able  to  overcome,  she  has  led  a 
retired  life.  A  reverent  lover  of  nature,  she  has  ever  found  her  highest  enjoyment  in 
rural  scenes. 


THE  SUNSET  ILLUMINATION. 

NOV.  27,  1883. 

A  wondrous  glory  gilds  the  western  sky— 
A  rich  unrivaled  brilliancy, 
Showing,  with  rare  intensity, 
The  rainbow-tints. 

This  bright,  auroral,  burnished  light 
Seems,  as  we  look,  to  come  to-night 
From  other  worlds  just  out  of  sight 
Beyond  the  hills. 

O  vision  grand,  magnificent ! 
As  if  the  glorious  Orient, 
To  thee,  for  one  brief  hour  had  lent 
Her  sweetest  charm. 

The  bare  brown  trees  are  glorified ; 
The  gates  of  sapphire  opened  wide 
For  us  in  this  sweet  eventide; 
And  God  is  here. 

Our  robes  the  wings  of  seraphs'  brush : 
We  feel  the  power,  the  fearful  hush, 
As  Moses  at  "  the  burning  bush" 
This  presence  felt. 


HELEN  N.  JERRARD  JENKINS.  555 

How  sweet  the  mingled  awe  and  bliss 
Which  come  to  us  in  hours  like  this ! 
God  writes  his  grandest  mysteries 
On  scrolls  of  fire. 


A  MORXLtfG  RIDE. 

One  summer  morning,  long  ago, 
When  earth  and  sky  were  all  aglow 

With  daybreak's  rosy  light, 
We  journeyed  a  fair  country  through, 
While  yet  the  sparkling  drops  of  dew 

With  azure  tints  were  bright. 

Tall  thistles  stood  erect  and  proud, 
Veiling  their  faces  in  a  cloud 

Of  filmy,  fleecy  lace ; 
Fair  buttercups  the  fields  did  crowd, 
And  clover-heads  were  softly  bowed, 
As  if  in  silent  grace. 

From  wayside  bush  and  tree  was  heard 
The  sweetest  song  of  every  bird, 

Out-gushing  cheerily; 
The  leaflets,  deeply  veined  and  shirred, 
By  the  cool  zephyrs  lightly  stirred, 

Were  dancing  merrily. 

Each  cottage  window  seemed  ablaze, 
As  o'er  the  hills  the  gleaming  rays 

Of  amber  sunlight  peered, 
Chasing,  deep  in  the  darksome  maze 
Of  the  dim  woodland's  hidden  ways, 

The  frightened  shadows  weird. 

The  world  had  never  seemed  so  fair; 
I  quite  forgot  life's  fret  and  care; 

My  heart  sang  all  the  way 
Unspoken  songs  of  praise  and  prayer, 
For  God  and  heaven  were  everywhere 

That  blissful  summer  clay. 

We  traversed  hills  and  valleys  wide, 
Where  gleaming  waters  oft  we  spied 

In  many  a  lovely  spot; 
And  long  before  the  sun  had  dried 
The  misty  webs  where  fairies  hide, 

We  reached  the  place  we  sought. 


55<)  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  greeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget, 
Or  the  dear,  loving  face  we  met 

Within  the  open  door; 
The  hands  out-reaching  eagerly 
To  clasp  our  own  so  tenderly, 

I  love  to  think  it  o'er. 

The  picture  was  so  sweet,  so  fair! 
The  dear  old  lady  standing  there 

With  look  of  glad  surprise; 
The  soft  eyes  and  the  shining  hair; 
The  trustful  look  a  saint  might  wear,- 

Are  sacred  memories. 

The  farm-house,  in  its  grassy  nest, 
Betokened  comfort,  joy  and  rest, 

Home  pleasures  sweet  and  rare; 
And  while  I  tarried  there  a  guest, 
I  thought  its  inmates  truly  blest, 

Such  loving  hearts  were  there. 


C         /WHMtfolt 


E.  Annie  S.Page  is  a  native  of  Portland,  daughter  of  the  late  James  Simonton,  an  esti 
mable  citizen  wfiose  family  traditions  number  many  interesting  incidents  of  the  Revo 
lution.  Has  contributed  from  early  youth  to  various  literary  journals  and  magazines, 
and  holds  her  poetic  gifts  as  a  resource  and  solace,  unambitious  of  distinction.  Draws 
inspiration  from  Nature,  and  sings  from  the  heart,  turning  sorrow  into  song.  Her  home 
has  been  for  many  years  in  California—  her  husband,  Nathaniel  Page,  now  deceased,  hav 
ing  been  a  prominent  resident  of  San  Francisco. 


OUT  OF  TUNE. 

My  heart  was  in  another  key.— N.  P.  WILLIS. 
The  morning  came, 
And  wrote,  in  words  of  flame, 
Its  worship  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
With  living  sapphires  flashed  the  leaping  rills, 
Greeting  the  day  with  musical  acclaim. 
The  dainty  breeze 
Coquetting  'mid  the  trees 

From  lifted  leaves  a  rapturous  murmur  brought; 
The  lark  went  up  like  some  melodious  thought, 
Prelude  to  nature's  choral  harmonies. 
With  silvery  swells, 
Dews  dropt  like  tinkling  bells 


E.  ANNIE  SIMON  TON  PAGE.  557 


In  pauses  of  the  matin  chant  that  rolled 

Through  heaven's  vast  arch,  where  ruby  tint  and  gold 

Wrought  'mid  white  clouds  their  gorgeous  miracles. 

Life  seemed  God's  boon 

That  rarest  morn  of  June ; 
Yet  while  the  matin  anthem  swelled  diviner, 
My  sad  heart  woke  its  melancholy  minor, 
Of  all  the  choral  voices,  out  of  tune. 

The  noon  came  on 

With  fiery  sweep  of  sun, 
Steeping  in  drowsy  languors  earth  and  sea. 
The  scented  blooms  dropt  noiseless  from  the  tree, 
Like  snow-flakes  where  the  clouds  hang  low  and  dun. 

In  honeyed  cells 

Of  velvet  lily-bells 

The  brown  bee  loitered  from  the  noon's  red  blaze, 
Filling  the  odorous  void  with  dreamy  lays, 
Like  murmurs  in  the  heart  of  ocean  shells. 

'  Neath  emerald  roof 

Of  verdure,  sunbeam-proof, 

The  song-birds  lay  in  slumberous  hush  profound; 
While  silence,  with  mysterious  skill,  inwound 
All  sweetness  of  utterance  in  its  woof. 

All  that  calm  noon 

Of  the  delicious  June, 

Peaceful  the  radiant  moments  dropt  together 
Like  rose-leaves  drifting  down  the  shining  ether, 
Yet  my  discordant  heart  was  out  of  tune. 

Then  came  the  night — 

A  fringe  of  gorgeous  light 

Trailed  from  the  clouds  o'er  all  the  sombre  hills; 
Then  dusky  shades  crept  up  from  meads  and  rills, 
Effacing  slow  the  sunset  pageant  bright. 

In  sweet  alarm 

Birds  hushed  their  evening  psalm, 
As  trees  stood  solemn  in  empurpled  glooms; 
The  blossoms  swung  their  censers  of  perfumes, 
Till  all  the  dewy  air  grew  faint  with  balm. 

The  noisy  tide 

Of  labor  gently  died: 
Slowly  along  the  azure  firmament 
Each  star  in  silence  pitched  its  silver  tent, 
And  earth  by  holy  calm  seemed  sanctified. 

Then  the  white  moon 

Swept  through  that  night  of  June; 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  air  was  filled  with  low,  melodious  whispers, 
As  bud  and  leaf  prolonged  the  holy  vespers, 
And  yet  my  strange,  sad  heart  was  out  of  tune. 

O  mystic  soul! 

Poor,  where  is  stint  nor  dole  — 
Threading  unheeding,  like  repining  churl, 
Stairways  of  amber,  corridors  of  pearl, 
Darkening  the  crystal  floors  with  funeral  stole  ! 

Why  should  a  lyre 

With  living  strings  of  fire, 
Where  all  melodious  utterances  are  shrined, 
Send  out  but  jarring  discords  undefined 
To  mar  the  harmonies  of  earth's  vast  choir  ? 

Why  should  the  strife, 

Or  seeming  ills,  of  life, 

Obscure  the  glory  which  the  morning  brings, 
Or  drown  the  holy  psalm  all  Nature  sings, 
Or  stain  white  peace  with  which  the  world  is  rife  ? 

Trust  turneth  soon 

Life's  dreariest  way  to  June  — 
A  scale  harmonious  runs  from  stars  to  daisies, 
Filling  the  azure  void  with  choral  praises  — 
Why  should  one  spirit  voice  be  out  of  tune  ? 


AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

A   CALIFOKXIAN   PICTURE. 

When  the  hills  are  growing  green . 
Where  the  insatiate  drought  has  been, 
How  the  grand,  resistless  forces 

Of  the  earth,  and  sun,  and  sky, 
Nature  wields,  like  some  magician, 

To  revive  and  beautify. 

Then  the  wild  and  turbulent  rains 
Wash  away  the  grime  and  stains, 
Till  the  dun  and  sullen  landscape 

Wears  a  loveliness  untold, 
Like  some  gem  of  rare  old  painter 

Brought  to  light  from  dust  and  mold. 

Then  the  humid  atmosphere 
Takes  all  hues,  compact  or  clear; 
Pearl-gray  clouds  like  quarried  snow-drifts ; 

Violet  haze  where  waters  glide, 
Crimson  banks,  with  rifts  of  opal, 

Down  the  west  at  eventide. 


ELIZA  OSTRAXDER  JEWELL.  559 


Or  the  day  strikes  clear  and  bold 

Up  the  east  suffused  with  gold ; 

Till  the  brown  hills  stand  transfigured, 

Canyon,  crest  and  wooded  height 
Sharp,  as  if  by  hand  of  sculptor 

Carved  against  the  walls  of  light. 

Unperceived,  what  beauty  creeps 

Up  the  bare  and  rugged  steeps; 

Yellow  moss  that  garners  sunshine, 
Soft  tints  piercing  the  brown  mold, 

Like  some  marvelous  mosaic- 
Set  in  lichens  gray  and  old. 

Soon  the  glades,  with  gorgeous  hues, 
Springing  grasses  interfuse ; 
Purples,  and  such  bits  of  color 

As  an  artist's  palette  shows; 
D:ish  of  ruby,  streaks  of  umber, 

Tints  of  amethyst  and  rose. 

Green  the  encalyptus  towers, 

Sentinel  of  all  the  hours; 

And  the  regal  oaks,  that  tempests 

Of  gray  centuries  have  defied, 
With  a  low,  deciduous  murmur, 

Weave  anew  their  crowns  of  pride. 

And  the  soul  keeps  holy  time 
In  the  budding,  rain,  or  rime; 
Blooms  the  sweet,  celestial  manna, 

Falls  the  hydromel  unseen, 
For  the  festival  of  Nature, 

When  the  hills  are  growing  green. 


Eliza  O.  Jewell,  whose  maiden  name  was  Ostrander,  was  the  third  daughter  of  Win. 
Muir  Ostrander  and  Reuette  Weed,  of  Albany,  N.  Y".,  and  was  born  in  Tully,  Onondaga 
County,  New  York,  Sept.  16,  1836.  She  has  lived  in  Maine  nearly  half  her  life,  and  has 
written  for  the  press  since  she  was  sixteen  years  of  age.  Mrs.  Jewell  was  educated  at 
Syracuse,  N.  Y.  She  now  lives  at  South  Paris,  Me.,  and  frequently  contributes  to  the 
best  papers  in  the  State. 


THE  GIRL  I  LOVE  IS  IN^  GERMANY. 

The  mountains  are  bathed  in  soft  blue  haze, 

The  river  tosses  and  sings — 
The  leaves  swing  full,  and  the  long  summer  day 

A  dreamy  restfulness  brings — 


560  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Yet  my  heart  goes  drifting  over  the  sea, 
For  the  girl  I  love  is  in  Germany. 

Dear  as  the  breath  blowing  oft"  from  the  hill 
Is  a  memory  that  drops  to-day: 

A  sweet  low  laugh,  like  the  gurgling  rill, 
Floats  back  from  the  far  away — 

And  I  walk  in  a  dream  it  seems  to  me, 

For  the  girl  I  love  is  in  Germany. 

She  sailed  one  day  far  out  on  the  brine, 
She  left  me  alone  on  the  shore, 

That  tawny-haired,  dark-eyed  girl  of  mine, 
With  only  the  goodness  she  wore— 

She  sailed  in  the  Eider  way  over  the  sea, 

And  the  girl  that  I  love  is  in  Germany. 

What  is  the  old  world,  a  faded-out  show, 
With  the  warm  tints  dropped  from  its  day  ? 

Else  why  should  she  have  treated  me  so 
And  snatched  my  sunshine  away  ? 

My  best  bit  of  color  she's  stolen  from  me, 

For  the  girl  I  love  is  in  Germany. 

Let  me  whisper  to  you  laddies  so  fine; 

She's  leal,  and  loyal  and  square 
To  the  heart  that  beats  this  side  the  brine, 

And  you'll  not  keep  her  over  there; — 
For  the  Eider's  captain,  promised,  you  see, 
To  bring  my  girl  safe  home  from  Germany. 


GOLDEN-HOD. 

She  has  come  again,  the  wild-flower's  queen, 
With  her  hair  of  gold,  and  her  gown  of  green, 
Frilled  to  the  neck,  slender,  graceful  and  tall, 
Waving  and  nodding  and  smiling  on  all- 
She's  dropping  her  gold  along  the  highway 
For  peasant  and  prince  the  long  summer  day, 
And  they  gather  a  yellow  breast-knot  to  wear, 
The  maiden  dark-eyed,  and  the  one  so  fair. 

Over  the  bare  knoll  her  gay  plumes  unfold, 
Each  sandy  stretch  is  strewed  with  her  gold — 
As  some  vision  of  youth— a  holy  boon- 
Comes  to  the  heart  in  its  bleak  afternoon. 


GRANVILLE  PAYSON   WILSON.  561 


O  dear  golden  flower,  thy  glad,  honest  face 
And  thy  lissome  form  are  a  study  of  grace, 
And  the  Psalmist's  words  are  repeated  in  thee, 
For  "thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me." 


ONLY. 

Only  a  fragile  white  snow-flake, 
Feathery  and  thin  as  the  air- 
Yet  each  star  is  fashioned  most  cunning, 
Every  globule  etched  fine  and  rare. 

Only  a  tiny  gray  sea-shell 
Tossed  up  on  the  burning  sand; 

Yet  the  walls  of  the  house  are  pearly, 
And  filled  with  melody  grand. 

Only  a  common  field  daisy 
With  a  plain  and  honest  face, 

Yet  every  petal  is  perfect, 
And  every  motion  is  grace. 

Only  a  bare-headed  mountain, 
Looming  up  haggard  and  old, 

Yet  deep  in  its  bowels  is  hidden 
A  treasure  of  silver  and  gold. 

Only  a  stretch  of  green  woodland 

Over  the  brow  of  the  hill; 
Yet  there  are  masts  of  great  vessels, 

And  bonnie  ships  lying  still. 

Only  an  old-fashioned  volume 

Bearing  a  worm-eaten  look, 
But  Jesus  is  found  'twixt  the  covers 

Of  this  ancient  wonderful  book. 

Only  a  strip  of  the  azure, 
The  clouds  are  all  on  this  side; 

For  beyond  the  blue  there  is  heaven 
With  its  portals  thrown  open  wide. 


Granville  P.  Wilson,  son  of  Cnpt.  John  M.  Wilson,  the  pioneer  of  the  Northern  lakes, 
WHS  born  at  Wilson's  Mills,  Lincoln  Plantation,  Me.,  in  183(5.  With  the  exception  of  a 
few  weeks  at  Gould's  Academy  in  1S57,  he  never  attended  high  school,  and  is  what  may 
honestly  be  called  a  self-educated  man.  Poetry  is  his  only  love,  and  a  little  volume  from 
his  pen,  entitled  "Poems  of  the  Magallouay,"  Mas  issued  from  the  " Mountaineer 
Press  "  in  ISSO.r  Of  late  years  JVIr.  Wilson's  health  has  been  seriously  impaired,  and  he 
now  resides  Avith  his  brother  at  Old  Orchard.  It  may  truly  be  said  that  some  of  his  crea 
tions  show  the  finer  elements  of  poetical  thought. 


562  1  HE  P  OE  7  S  OF  MA  IJV  E. 


SECLUSION. 

Where  the  wild-wood  waves, 

And  the  foaming  torrent,  flashing 

'  Mid  its  mossy  caves, 
In  perpetual  wrath  is  dashing : 

Where  the  solid  ground, 

Day  and  night,  with  ceaseless  quaking, 
Trembles  far  around, 

While  the  lofty  woods  are  shaking: 

Where  forever  pour 

Wild  Magallo way's  rude  billows, 
Whose  unceasing  roar 

Wakes  the  slumberer  'midst  his  pillows: 

Let  my  footsteps  roam, 

Oft,  when  spring  opes  her  fountains ! 
And  in  rills  hath  flown 

All  the  hoar-frost  of  the  mountains! 

When  the  earth,  released, 

Springs  from  winter's  icy  thraldom, 
And  all  nature  breathes 

The  pure  atmosphere  of  freedom ! 

When  the  wild  birds  throng, 

Giving  voice  to  gladdened  nature, 

With  unrivaled  song 
Chant  the  praise  of  the  Creator! 

Where  the  fragrant  breeze 

Bears  the  forest's  breath,  life-giving, 
And  all  the  awakened  trees 

Of  the  wilderness  are  singing; 

Leave  me  long,  to  pore 

On  the  matchless  theme  of  wonder, 
Written  on  the  shore ! 

Spoken  in  the  torrent's  thunder! 

In  my  glad  retreat, 

From  the  sordid  world's  confusion, 
There  my  heart  shall  beat 

Calmly,  in  its  sweet  seclusion; 

While  the  April  sun, 

Like  forgiving  smile  of  heaven, 
All  the  forest  crowns 

With  the  glowing  tints  of  Eden. 


AUGUSTA  CORDELIA  DAVIS.  563 

Sweet  the  lonely  hour ! 

Sweet  the  torrent's  dash  and  thunder, 
White  with  turmoil  and  with  power, 

Though  it  rend  old  Earth  asunder! 

Where  no  sound  of  sin, 

Vileness,  tyranny,  or  folly, 
Mocks  the  peace  within, 

And  the  presence  of  the  holy. 

Earthly  guile  hath  reared 

Here  no  monument  or  token : 
God  is  here — not  man  is  feared, 

God's  own  voice  alone  hath  spoken ! 


This  lady,  who  writes  under  the  uotn  de  plume  of  Alice  Chadbourne,  was  born  Oct.  6, 
1836,  in  Yarmouth,  then  North  Yarmouth,  and  has  always  resided  in  that  town.  She 
began  quite  early  to  write  for  publication,  and  under  the  nom  de  plume  given  has  been 
widely  and  favorably  known  as  a  contributor  for  various  periodicals,  of  sketches  and 
poems,  and  of  serial,  short,  domestic,  humorous  and  juvenile  stories.  Many  of  these 
have  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Portland  Transcript.  Possessing  a  cheerful  spirit, 
she  is  ever  looking  at  the  sunny  side,  and  this  has  been  a  marked  characteristic  of  her 
writings.  She  has  a  very  modest  estimate  of  her  own  productions,  and  is  very  retiring 
in  her  nature,  but  a  charming  companion  and  a  most  loyal  friend.  Her  poems  are  the 
expression  of  her  inner  life«%nd  touch  the  finer  chords  of  the  responsive  soul.  It  is  with 
deep  regret  we  have  to  record  the  sad  fact  that  she  has  for  more  than  a  year  been 
obliged  to  wholly  desist  from  literary  work  by  the  almost  total  deprivation  of  sight. 
Even  the  pleasure  of  reading  is  denied  her.  Yet  she  bears  this  sore  trial  with  patience, 
and  is  the  same  cheery  companion  as  before.  The  following  pathetic  poem  was  written 
in  memory  of  an  only  and  dearly  loved  sister,  a  lady  of  rare  sweetness  and  grace  of  char 
acter.  The  "Dream"  was  no  mere  fancy,  but  an  actual  experience,  and  a  source  of 
great  comfort  to  the  author.  The  poem  was  copied  into  several  journals. 


MY  DREAM. 

How  vivid  was  my  dream ! 

You  came,  I  thought,  from  fresh  and  fragrant  fields ; 
From  the  low  music  of  Yare's  pleasant  stream, 
Where  the  wee  violet  its  incense  yields, 

And  throws  its  purple  gleam. 

I  heard  your  gentle  tread, 
Just  as  I  heard  it  on  still  afternoons, 
When  life  and  hope  were  to  each  other  wed, 
In  cool  Septembers  and  in  glowing  Junes, 

Before  earth's  sunshine  fled. 

I  heard  your  little  feet, 

And  all  my  heart  grew  light  and  glad  once  more. 
I  could  not  linger,  but,  with  footsteps  fleet, 
I  sprang  to  clasp  you  at  the  open  door; 

Joy's  benison  was  sweet! 


BG4  777£  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

There,  in  the  sunset  warm, 
With  the  old,  winsome  grace,  I  saw  you  stand; 
The  golden  glory  wrapped  your  slender  form, 
And,  on  my  soul,  at  touch  of  your  dear  hand, 

Fell  calm,  as  after  storm. 

I  saw  the  happy  play 

Of  light  and  love  in  your  dark,  lustrous  eyes; 
I  heard  your  clear  voice,  blithe  as  morning,  say, 
In  tender  little  accents  of  surprise, 

"  Have  I  been  long  away  ?  " 

Dearest,  is  it  not  long  ? 
O  sweetest  spirit  that  e'er  blesed  my  days; 
O  gentlest  soul  that  ever  hated  wrong; 
O  sunny  heart  that  gladdened  all  our  ways, 

Sister!  is  it  not  long? 

Is  it  not  long  to  miss 

The  tenderness  that  crowned  me  day  by  day; 
The  light  of  loving  eyes,  the  clasp,  the  kiss, 
The  interchange  of  thought  and  fancy's  play? 

Yet,  not  for  heaven's  own  bliss 

Would  I  inure,  again, 

My  treasured  one  to  earth's  unending  care; 
Far  better  life-long  loneliness  and  pain, 
Than  shadow  fall  on  lot  so  sweet  and  fair, 

Or  loss  defraud  her  gain. 


FOR  "BROWNIE'S"  ALBUM. 

My  little  friend,  how  can  you  bring  me  here, 
Into  the  presence  of  the  Poet  grand — 

Whose  stately  name  is  honored  far  and  near*— 
And  then  ask  tribute  from  my  helpless  hand ! 

Dear  little  Brownie,  I  would  gladly  trace 
A  shining  path  for  you  o'er  Life's  great  sea; 

Lift  every  shadow  from  your  sunny  face, 
And  pray  your  fairest  hopes  might  blossom  free. 


*The  daring  little  friend,  for  whom  this  was  written,  reverencing  the  poet  Longfellow 
with  all  her  heart,  sent  him  last  spring,  (1882)  a  treasure  of  May-blooms,  and  begged  the 
boon  of  his  illustrious  name  for  her  album,  which  she  forwarded.  The  kindly  poet 
promptly  complied  wtih  her  request,  and  wrote  her,  besides,  a  graceful  note  of  thanks 
for  her  fresh  and  beautiful  flowers  that  carried  him  back  to  the  woods  of  Maine  and  his 
boyhood. 


AUGUSTA  CORDELIA  DAVIS.  565 


But  one,  who  walks  beside  you,  loves  you  more, 
And  in  his  own  good  time  and  perfect  way. 

Whatever  good  He  takes,  He  will  restore, 

And  change  the  darkening  night  to  dawning  day. 

Courage!  press  on!  use  well  your  graceful  dower, 
The  ready  brain,  the  skilful  little  hand, 

The  wealth  of  Fancy  and  the  wond'rous  power 
All  loving,  loyal  natures  e'er  command. 

Sunshine  is  sweet,  but  storm  we  need  as  well; 

We  cannot  build  the  soul's  fair  mansion  strong 
In  joy  alone;  but  pain  and  sorrow  tell 

A  deeper  story— sing  a  sweeter  song. 


AGNES. 

As  I  sit  in  my  chamber  at  night, 

While  the  stars  softly  bloom  in  the  sky, 
And  the  moon  with  pale  glory  alight, 
Hangs  trembling  in  blue  depths  on  high, 
I  list,  as  I '  ve  listened  before, 
For  a  gay  little  knock  at  my  door; 
And  the  sweet,  happy  ringing  of  Agnes'  voice  singing 
A  song  which  will  sound  nevermore. 

O  it  must  be  a  terrible  dream ! 

Those  long  weeks  of  anguish  and  dread, 
When  we  watched  with  hope's  nickering  gleam, 
Till  they  spoke  the  strange  words,  "She  is  dead." 
But  the  musical  voice  was  so  clear, 
And  the  glad  little  tones  were  so  dear, 
That  while  I  am  waiting,  my  very  breath  bating, 
They  seem  to  be  echoing  near. 

And  I  answer,  "Come  in,  pretty  bird, 

With  your  odd  little  fanciful  lay; 
'T  is  time  the  sweet  carol  I  heard, — 
Come  sing  me  your  song  of  to-day." 

Then  quickly  the  door  flashes  wide. 
And  swiftly  there  springs  to  my  side 
A  wee,  dainty  maiden,  with  happy  thoughts  laden, 
And  life  flowing  full  like  the  tide. 

"O  I  am  so  glad  it  is  night, 
And  I  can  come  straight  to  your  room," 


S«6  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


She  begins,  in  a  tone  of  delight, 
That  rings  through  the  silvery  gloom; 
As  I  fold  close  the  delicate  form, 
'Mid  a  shower  of  soft  kisses  warm, 
With  loving  arms  twining,  and  wondrous  eyes  shining, 
As  bright  as  the  stars  after  storm. 

Then  she  gives  her  strange  fancy  full  play, 

And  sings  me  a  song  of  the  sea; 
A  rhymeless  but  musical  lay, 

As  perfect  as  perfect  can  be. 
And  there  comes  o'er  the  sweet  thoughtful  face 

A  tender  and  exquisite  grace, 

As  of  one  who  in  dreaming  sees  soft  splendor  streaming 
From  out  of  some  glorified  place. 

Ah!  the  quaint  little  songs  are  all  sung, — 

Closed  to  us  are  the  beautiful  eyes, — 
But  the  clear  voice  is  chanting  among 
Christ's  little  ones  called  to  the  skies; 

And  though  our  hearts  ache  and  we  miss 
The  joy  and  the  song  and  the  kiss, 
Yet  sweet  is  the  feeling  that  God  is  revealing 
His  love,  in  sore  trials  like  this. 


Born  at  Fitchburg,  Mass.,  Jan.  7, 1837;  graduated  at  Brown  University,  Providence,  R. 
I.,  1861,  and  at  Newton  Theological  Institution,  Newton  Centre,  Mass.,  1867;  studied  in 
Halle,  Germany,  1868-69;  was  a  Baptist  pastor  in  Waterville,  this  State  1869-73-  and  now 
editor  and  publisher  of  Zion's  Advocate,  at  Portland.  Received  the  degree  of  D.  D. 
from  Brown  University,  in  1883.  Since  1876  Dr.  Burrage  has  been  Recording  Secretary  of 
the  American  Baptist  Missionary  Union.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of 
Colby  University  and  also  of  Newton  Theological  Institution.  He  has  a  brilliant  mili 
tary  record,  having  been  Assistant  Adjutant  General  on  the  staff  of  the  First  Brigade 
Second  Division,  Ninth  Army  Corps,  and  was  a  prisoner  rom  Nov.  1,  1864,  to  Feb.  22,  1865. 
He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  a  miscellaneus  character,  and  a  poet  of  acknowl 
edged  ability. 


THE  OPEN  CASEMENT  AT  BABYLON. 

[Daniel  vi.  in.] 

FROM   THE    GERM  AX    OF    KARL    GEROK. 

By  the  waters  gently  flowing 

Babylon's  fair  banks  along, 
Where  the  breezes,  softly  blowing, 

Move  the  leafy  trees  among, 
In  a  chamber,  by  a  casement 

Which  toward  Zion  open  stands, 
Daniel  kneels  in  deep  abasement, 

Seeking  God  with  outstretched  hands. 


HENR  Y  8  W EETSEE  B  UERA  GE,  5(>7 


Daily  thrice  in  rapt  devotion 

Kneels  lie  there  before  his  Lord ; 
Hushes  the  wild  world's  commotion, 

Claims  the  promise  of  the  word: — 
Morning,  as  the  stars  are  fading, 

Midday,  hour  of  fiercest  heat, 
Evening,  in  the  twilight  shading 

Busy  Babel's  lordly  seat. 

Palaces  of  rmnirchs  spurning, 

Halls  his  exiled  feet  have  trod, 
Lo,  the  prophet,  westward  turning, 

Greets  the  Zion  of  his  God. 
And  o'er  gardens  bright  with  flowers, 

Over  many  a  palm-tree's  crest, 
Rise  again  tlje  ruined  towers 

Of  Jerusalem  the  blest. 

And  the  breezes,  lightly  blowing 

Over  deserts  vast  and  drear, 
Over  rivers  wildly  flowing, 

Greetings  out  of  Zion  bear. 
Balm  the  sweetest,  too,  they  bring  him, 

Balm  from  Zion's  holy  hill; 
Melodies  of  home  they  sing  him, 

Wakening  every  pulse's  thrill. 


Happy  he,  the  world  forgetting, 

Mid  the  tumult  all  around, 
Who,  his  casement  open  setting, 

Looking  Zion  ward  is  found; 
Who,  beneath  his  burden  bending, 

Lifts  to  heaven  his  bitter  sigh, 
Morn,  and  noon,  and  evening  sending 

Messages  of  faith  on  high. 

Though  I  had  in  fullest  measure 

All  that  crowns  the  worldling's  bliss, 
Mines  untold  of  richest  treasure, 

Gardens  of  Semiramis ; 
Still,  with  Babel's  walls  around  me, 

I  should  feel  the  tyrant's  hand, 
Long  to  break  the  chain  that  bound  me, 

Hie  me  to  the  Fatherland. 

Though  in  some  deep  dungeon  pining 
I  must  dwell  in  darkest  night, 


Til E  POLTS  OF  MAINE. 


Lo,  a  glory  round  me  shining 
Fills  the  dungeon  with  its  light; 

As  my  heart  its  casement  throwing 
Open  toward  the  heavenly  hills, 

Somewhat  of  the  light  there  glowing 
Falls  and  all  my  being  fills. 

When  mid  cares  which  daily  press  me 

Cares  which  none  but  I  may  wear; 
When  the  pains  of  life  distress  me, 

Pains  so  burdensome  to  bear; 
Then  my  casement  open  flinging 

Toward  the  land  by  angels  trod. 
All  my  care  and  pain  there  bringing, 

Find  I  sweet  relief  in  God. 

When  disease  my  frame  is  wasting, 

From  Jerusalem  the  fair 
Strength  I  draw,  already  tasting 

Daily  of  its  blissful  air. 
Stars  of  hope,  too,  brightly  burning 

O'er  my  pilgrim  way  appear; 
And  the  harpers,  earthward  turning, 

Waft  a  message  to  my  ear. 

Thus  where'er  my  home  I  make  me, 

Here  or  far  in  distant  lands, 
Daily  Zionward  I  take  me,— 

Open  wide  my  casement  stands. 
What  though  Babylon  is  ringing 

With  the  tumult  of  the  street, 
O'er  it  all  my  heart  upspringing, 

Zion  undisturbed  I  greet. 


SEVEN  YEARS  OLD. 

FJiOM   THE    GEIIMAN. 

O  yes,  dream  on,  while  still  is  thine 

The  sweetness  of  life's  earlier  years; 
O  yes,  sing  on,  while  still  is  thine 

A  heart  on  which  no  stain  appears ! 
O  yes,  dream  on !    And  in  thy  dream 

The  world  of  fables  make  thine  own — 
So  soon,  alas,  so  soon,  alas, 

The  dreams  of  youth  will  all  have  flown. 


COEELLI  CASWELL   WILLIAMS  SIMPSON. 


O  yes,  sing  on!    Let  sweetest  notes 

Break  forth  to  greet  the  dawning  light, 
And  let  no  day  sink  to  its  close 

That  has  not  blest  tlicc  in  its  flight! 
Whate'er  has  thrilled  thee  tell  the  world, 

Though  'tis  thy  heart's  most  precious  store; 
So  soon,  alas,  so  soon,  alas, 

The  songs  of  youth  are  heard  no  more. 


Mrs.  C.  C.  W.  Simpson  was  born  Feb.  20.  18.37,  and  passed  the  first  twenty-five  years  of 
her  life  at  Tannlon.  Mass.  Her  father  was  Oipt.  F.  1).  Williams,  a  descendant  of  the 
famous  .Roger  Williams.  Mrs.  Simpson  attended  the  Hristol  Academy,  the  Taunton  High 
School,  and  the  Salisbury  Mansion  School,  at  Worcester,  Mass  After  iini Mnj;  her  edu 
cation  at  Worcester,  our  author  taught  in  the  public*  schools  of  Taunton  until  18(!.'5,  hav 
ing  during  this  time  secured  prizes  for  her  painting-*  exhibited  at  the  Hristol  County  Fair. 
She  next,  in  18G4.  at  Bangor.  opened  the  first  Kindergartf n  taught  in  Maine,  with 
her  associate,  Miss  I'oe.  succeeding  finely.  On  Sept.  2".  18C5,  Miss  Williams  was  married 
to  A.  L.  Simpson,  a.  leading  lawyer  of  3'angor.  Since  then,  her  pencil  and  brush 
Lave  alternated  with  her  pen  with  about  equal  results.  She  has  written,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  for  the  Portland  Tr(in*cri)>t.  Munif,  F«nncr.  l'.<r>,ftf>r  U'/iif/  and  '  oi>ri<-r. 
Youth's  Companioned  other  papers.  In  ]88;>-H-85.  >he  had  charge  of  the  exhibition 
of  paintings  at  the  Eastern  Maine  State  Fair,  at  Hangor.  In  18^4  Mrs.  Simpson  com 
piled  a  little  book  called  "  Tete  a.  Tete,"  culinary  gleanings,  in  aid  of  a  fair,  held  in  IJan- 
gor,  which  was  a  great  success. 


FOR  RIGHT'S  OWN  SAKE. 

Much  hesitation  will  not  do; 

We  know  too  late 
Grand  opportunities  are  few 

To  those  who  wait. 
If  righteous, — care  not  for  the  rest. 

From  dreams  awake! 
The  mind,  willed  rightly,  will  be  blest 

For  right's  own  sake. 

Say  not — shall  I  succeed  or  fail 

In  this  my  task  ? 
Appearances  should  not  avail. 

But  one  thing  ask, — 
If  righteous?    'Tis  the  only  quest 

Thou  need'st  to  make. 
The  heart,  thrilled  rightly,  will  be  blest 

For  right's  own  sake. 

When  shorn  of  selfishness  and  cheat 
Each  thought  is  clear; 

All  bitterness  then  turns  to  sweet, 

And  heaven  is  near. 
83 


570  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


If  righteous, — let  that  be  the  test, 

Though  hearts  now  ache, 

The  love,  sent  rightly,  will  be  blest 

For  right's  own  sake. 

Our  God  made  all  things  good,— each  part 

A  perfect  whole. 
These  are  misplaced  by  man's  low  art. 

Thou  wilt, — my  soul, 
On  virtue  let  all  honor  rest; 

Thy  right  course  take. 
The  will,  bent  rightly,  will  be  blest 

For  right's  own  sake. 

"BABYLAND." 

Sweet  Babyland !  no  myth !  no  dream ! 
Though  proud,  or  great,  or  wise  we  seem, 
Could  time  fly  backward,  soon  we  would 
Be  once  again  in  babyhood, 
And  in  loved  arms  contented  lie, 
List'iiing  to  some  sweet  lullaby. 

Sweet  face  with  dimpled  cheeks  and  chin, 

So  fair  a  babe  was  never  seen ! 

I  wonder  if  we  '11  ever  know 

The  thoughts  that  set  thy  face  aglow ! 

Till  thou  canst  speak,  mayst  thou  retain 

These  angel  whispers  in  thy  brain. 

Encircled  in  a  coral  wreath, 

Nestle  and  peep  two  pearly  teeth; 

Smile  on,  thy  rattle  shake  with  glee ! 

Expand  thy  powers !  there  is  for  me 

A  natural,  resistless  charm 

In  the  untaught  grace  of  thy  plump  arm. 

Soft,  liquid  depths  of  heavenly  blue, 
So  sagely  wise  and  yet  so  new, 
Calm  eyes,  ne'er  startled  yet  by  fears! 
Bright  eyes,  ne'er  yet  bedewed  with  tears ! 
Within  me,  how  thy  earnest  gaze 
Blends  hopes  and  fears  in  dreamy  maze ! 

Sweet  baby  mine,  O  if  'tis  true 

That  thou  canst  read  me  through  and  through, 

Should  evils  balance  down  the  scale, 

Ere  thou  canst  lisp  thy  infant  tale, 

O  that  I  could  by  fairy  wand 

Be  spirited  to--Babyland ! 


ED  WARD  PA  YSON  NO  WELL.  571 


And  do  I  crave  a  boon  too  blessed  ? 

In  this  babe  to  my  bosom  pressed, 

View  I  the  germ  that  is  to  be 

The  soul  of  generosity  ? 

That  will  incline  to  good  and  thrill 

With  strength  of  body,  mind,  and  will  ? 

I  take  one  tiny  hand  in  mine, 
The  other  rests  in  the  Divine. 
May  I  have  strength  to  hold  the  key 
Of  this  pure  soul  thus  lent  to  me, 
To  take  my  wee  one  by  the  hand, 
And  lead  him  forth  from  Babyland. 

In  God's  great  wisdom  formed  He  thus 
These  golden  links,  '  twixt  heaven  and  us, 
If  in  His  love,  He  calls  His  own, 
Before  His  buds  to  flowers  are  blown, 
We  know  that  by  His  own  dear  will, 
The  links  remain  unbroken  still. 


jjaitsan 


Edward  P.  Nowell  was  born  in  lloyalton,  Vt.,  Feb.  24,  1837.  His  early  life  was  spent  in 
Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  but  in  later  years  he  resided  awhile  in  Portland,  and  married  a 
daughter  of  the  highly  respected  Harris  C.  Barnes  of  that  city  lately  deceased  He 
was  seven  years  editor  of  the  American  Odd  Fellow,  and  also  official  reporter  of  the 
U.  S.  Grand  Lodge  of  Odd  Fellows  for  two  years.  He  died  suddenly  at  Defiance  Ohio 
April  29,  1880.  Mr.  Nowell  was  a  gifted  writer  both  in  prose  and  verse. 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  CRADLE. 

Sweet  scenes  of  my  boyhood !  I  love  to  recall  them, 

Electric  they  shimmer  on  mem'ry's  warm  sky, 

The  maple-fringed  river,  the  hills  grand  and  solemn, 

And  all  the  dear  haunts  in  the  forest  near  by; 
I  deem  these  fresh  views  on  the  past's  panorama 

As  sweetest  of  all  the  enchantments  of  earth,— 
The  ancient  red  house,  in  which -life's  devious  drama 

Commenced  in  the  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth ; 
The  old  oaken  cradle,  the  rocker-worn  cradle, 

The  high-posted  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth. 

Near  two  generations  from  earth  have  departed 
Since  home  in  high  state  this  quaint  cradle  was  brought, 

Attesting  the  advent  of  one  who,  light-hearted, 
Gave  joy  pure  and  holy,  of  sad  sorrow  nought! 


S72  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Dear  relic  of  dream-days !  what  rest  have  you  granted, 
To  mother  and  infant  when  hushed  was  his  mirth; 

How  grateful  was  sleep  when  the  babe  for  it  panted! 
A  boon  is  the  cradle  which  stands  by  the  hearth ! 

The  old  oaken  cradle,  the  rocker-worn  cradle, 
The  high-posted  cradle  which  stands  by  the  hearth. 

Not  all  memory's  promptings  of  by-gones  that  gather 

Are  free  from  a  sadness  made  sacred  by  space, — 
Since  angels  led  two  from  our  home, — and  forever 

Seraphic,  behold  they  Immanuel's  face; 
And  we  who  remain  from  those  scenes  all  are  distant, 

But  never  forget  we  the  place  of  our  birth; 
The  light  of  our  mem'ry,  in  realms  reminiscent, 

Reveals  the  staid  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth; 
The  old  oaken  cradle,  the  rocker-worn  cradle, 

The  high-posted  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth. 


THE  FIRST  DAY  AT  SCHOOL. 

The  clew  glints  in  the  meadow,  Across  the  floor  she  capers 

The  sun  smiles  through  the  tree,  Just  like  a  pretty  lamb, 

The  blue-bird  and  the  robin  Her  arms  she  gayly  tosses, 

Ne'er  sang  so  cheerily!  And  shouts  "  How  glad  I  am !" 

Within  her  eyes  joy  sparkles,  The  heavens  look  down  in  love-light, 

She  laughs  'tween  teeth  of  pearl;  And  ecstacy  impart, 

No  birdies  half  so  happy  While  fairies  of  fruition 

As  my  sweet  little  girl.  Dance  through  my  darling's  heart! 

The  first  day  in  the  school-room! 

Life's  seed  upsprings  and  grows! 
From  tender  care  maternal 

The  guileless  child  outgoes ; 
O  Father !  guide  my  darling 

Through  time's  unstable  school, 
That  she  may  e'er  inculcate 

The  sacred  Golden  Rule. 


illhim 


Hon.  diaries  W.  Goddard  was  born  in  Portland,  Dec.  29,  1825,  graduated  from  Bow- 
doin  College  in  1844,  and  was  admitted  to  the  liar  in  November,  1S46.  He  opened  an 
office  in  his  native  city;  in  1<-CO  removed  to  I.ewiston  Falls,  where  he  was  in  active 
practice  sixteen  years,  with  the  exception  of  the  period  between  18G1  to  18C4,  while  he  was 
Consul-General  of  the  United  States  at  Constantinople.  Jn  18(>G  he  returned  to  Port 
land.  which  has  since  been  his  residence.  While  at  Lewiston  Falls  he  was  Attorney  for 
Androscoggin  County  for  four  year.s,  a  member  of  the  State  Senate,  appointed  to  the 


CHARLES   WILLIAM  GODDARD.  573 

chairmanship  of  1858  arid  1859,  and  the  last  year  its  president.  In  1867  he  was  appointed 
Justice  of  the  newly  organized  Superior  Court  for  Cumberland  County,  and  filled  that 
position  until  1871,  when  he  became  postmaster  of  Portland,  which  office  he  held  until 
1884.  In  1867  he*\vas  in  the  commission  for  the  equalization  of  municipal  war  debts  of 
the  State,  and  in  1885  he  was  one  of  the  Police  Commissioners  for  his  native  city.  Judge 
Goddard  has  held  various  other  posts  of  honor,  both  local  and  national,  and  is  still  in 
vigorous  health,  M  ith  full  possession  of  his  mental  powers. 


THE  BOWDOIN  OF  EIGHTEEN"  Him  DEED  AND  FORTY. 

AN    EXTRACT. 

As  a  dim  comet,  in  eccentric  flight, 
Shoots  from  the  fathomless  abyss  of  night, 
Twice  in  the  century  to  mortal  eye 
Faintly  revealed  low  in  the  western  sky; — 
Then  from  its  path  elliptic  doomed  to  swerve, 
It  disappears  in  parabolic  curve: 
(That  curve  relentless,  from  whose  fatal  track 
Eternity  ne'er  calls  the  wand'rer  back) 
SO  I,  who  once,  in  vanished  days  of  yore, 
Essayed  to  sing  the  class  of  'forty-four, 
(Doubling  the  years  that  mark  the  cent'ry's  date) 
To-night  appear  your  bard  of  'eighty-eight. 

As  memory  sweeps  o'er  eight  and  forty  years, 

Young  Bowdoin  of  the  olden  time  appears : 

The  early  bell  that  summoned  us  to  prayer 

Peals  out  once  more  on  the  keen  morning  air. 

The  wooden  chapel  in  dull  yellow  hue, 

With  its  mute  organ  rises  to  my  view; 

Its  half- waked  worshipers,  its  portly  stove: 

(Chapel  below  and  library  above) 

Stern  discipline  assigned  that  sacred  floor, 

Seniors  in  front  and  Freshmen  toward  the  door. 

Yet  such  our  zeal  to  bow  before  the  Lord, 

So  eager  we  to  listen  to  the  Word, 

That  like  the  Psalmist,  a  doorkeeper's  place 

Our  class  accepted  as  a  means  of  grace:— 

But  service  ended,  when  with  cap  in  hand, 

While  all  the  rest  passed  out,  required  to  stand; 

Old  Adam  drove  us  Freshmen  (rank  and  file 

Just  forty  strong)  pell-mell  into  the  aisle 

To  block  th'  astonished  Senior's  onward  course, 

The  portal  crowd,  and  equal  rights  enforce. 

Ancient  religious  war  broke  out  afresh, 

With  carnal  weapons  waged,  true  arms  of  flesh. 

On  many  a  head  the  fist  uplifted  fell : 

38* 


574  THE  P  )EUS  OF 


("  In  heavenly  minds  could  such  resentments  dwell  ?") 

Earth's  primal  quarrel  there  was  fought  again, 

For  sev'ral  Abels  felt  the  blows  of  Cane, 

Tall  Grover  Second  caught  up  Tidy  Page 

And  with  him  felled  Sam.  Dinsmore  in  his  rage. 

While  to  and  fro  the  line  of  battle  reeled 

And  vict'ry's  scales  hung  doubtful  o'er  the  field; 

From  chapel  threshold,  the  embattled  mass 

Prof.  Packard  viewed  and  thus  addressed  our  class  :— 

"  Freshmen,  desist.     Your  direful  wrath  restrain! 

Attend,  while  I  the  college  laws  explain! 

The  claim  of  Anderson  is  not  denied; 

For  'tis  not  law  express  but  law  implied 

Which  you  transgress,  Freshmen  perverse  and  proud  ! 

Strangers  comparative  are  not  allowed 

To  put  on  airs  or  bulldoze  Senior  class:  — 

Disperse,  and  instant  to  your  suppers  pass!" 

• 

As  when  upon  the  holy  Sabbath  air 
From  many  a  church  ascends  the  voice  of  prayer* 
At  Gorham's  Corner  or  in  Centre  Street 
A  godless  throng  in  bloody  combat  meet  : 
Shelalahs  wave;  stones,  oaths  and  brickbats  fly; 
And  the  wild  uproar  threatens  earth  and  sky  :— 
Should  a  policeman  by  rare  chance  appear, 
(In  search  of  rotgut  or  lager  beer) 
Palsied  is  woman's  tongue  and  rowdy's  arm, 
And  to  the  storm  succeeds  a  sudden  calm  ;— 
So  ceased  at  Packard's  voice  resistance  vain, 
And  law  and-  order  reigned  o'er  all  the  plain. 


This  I  record  to  our  instructors'  praise ;         » 
" Giants  were  in  the  earth  in  those"  old  "days." 
Goodwin  alone  survives ;— the  other  six 
Have  crossed  the  waters  of  the  gloomy  Styx. 
Majestic  Cleaveland;  glorious  Leonard  Woods; 
Mysterious  Upham,  man  of  silent  moods; 
The  courtly  Packard :  -next,  (but  how  unlike) 
The  fiery  Smyth :— last,  gentle  Tutor  Pike. 

While  our  third  year  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
Beyond  Maine  Hall  the  college  building  rose, 
Since  known  as  "Appleton :"— in  that  new  hall, 
Seniors  elect,  we  were  invited  all 


CHARLES  WILLIAM  GODDAED.  575 


Our  rooms  to  choose  by  lot : — the  class  moves  in 

And  dedication  services  begin. 

A  Senior  roast  was  served  in  either  end; 

To  the  small  hours  the  banquetings  extend. 

Sargent's  gymnasium,  in  the  college-yard, 

(Or  "campus,"  let  us  speak  with  due  regard 

To  modern  ears  refined)  now  lifts  its  wall 

In  robust  challenge  to  grim  Adams  Hall, 

The  surgeon's  den: — the  proverb  to  assure, 

"Ounce  of  prevention,  or  a  pound  of  cure." 

Audacious  thought!  that  e'er  your  bard  should  dare 

To  fill  an  august  professorial  chair ! 

A  "Doctor"  grave  to  future  ages  known, 

Not  of  the  French,  but  medical  "Sorbonne." 

From  "  Sawbone"  Hall  no  theologian  speaks; 

But  Gerrish,  'Mitchell,  Dana,  Hunt  and  Weeks. 

Where  once  with  safety,  if  unknown  to  fame, 

We  played  what  now  they  call  "the  nation'l  game," 

A  noble  Hall  uprears  its  stately  head, 

Memorial  fit  for  Bowdoin's  glorious  dead 

Who  in  their  country's  cause  surrendered  life 

On  southern  fields  of  fratricidal  strife. 

The  gothic  chapel  Wood's  prophetic  eye 

In  vision  saw,  high-tow' ring  toward  the  sky, — 

Now  stands  revealed  to  ordinary  sight, 

Where  through  stained  glass  streams  mediaeval  light. 

'T  is  said  that  now  along  the  end  or  rear 
Of  any  college  building,  without  fear 
A  man  can  walk,  secure  'gainst  water  shed 
From  pail  or  bowl  on  his  devoted  head. 

While  mem'ry  wanders  o'er  the  distant  past, 
The  good  old  days  with  modern  to  contrast, 
The  poet's  loftiest  flight  I  've  da.red  not  try, 
To  soar  into  the  realm  of  prophecy. 

Time  was  when  boys  and  girls  were  trained  apart; 
If  boys  excelled  in  mind,  the  girls  in  heart. 
But  now  we've  changed  all  that,  abolished  sex, 
And  Bowdoin  soon  must  have  its  "Girls'  Annex." 

This  single  truth  is  given  me  to  relate ; 
Thus  far  the  Muse  unrolls  the  book  of  fate. 


576  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Portland  Alumni!  Sons  of  Bowdoin,  hail! 
May  children,  wealth  and  honor  never  fail 
College  or  city !    May  auspicious  fate 
Forever  guard  those  bulwarks  of  the  State ! 

Hail  and  farewell!    Though  far  across  our  way 
The  length' ning  shadows  of  life's  evening  stray; 
To  our  fair  town  each  year  new  charms  imparts, 
Forever  dearer  to  its  children's  hearts. 

May  num'rous  generations  of  its  youth 
Be  trained  in  wisdom,  piety  and  truth 
At  Bowcloiii's  altar,  whose  undying  lires 
Burned  for  their  fathers  and  their  fathers'  sires. 


Hon  Fabius  M.  Eav  was  born  March  30, 1837,  at  South  Windham,  Me.  He  was  gradu 
ated  ?t  Bowdoin  College  in  1861,  and  spent  the  year  after  graduation  in  Heidelberg  Ger 
many  and  Geneva,  Switzerland  in  the  study  of  German  and  French.  Returning  home, 
?e  read  lawin  Portland,  and  in  due  time  was  admitted  to  the  Cumberland  Bar  He  has 
resided  for  many  years  past  in  Saccarappa,  practicing  his  profession  there  and  in  Port- 
[and  where  he  haVhad  an  office  since  1871.  Mr.  Ray  has  represented  the  town  of  West- 
Sook  two  terms  in  the  "popular  branch"  of  the  Legislature,  and  served  one  term  as 
State  Senator from  Cumberland  County.  He  takes  a  decided  interest  in  matters  pertam- 
hS  to  local  and  family  history,  and  is  at  present  President  of  the  Maine  Genealogical 
Solietv  Mr  l^ywls  class  poet  at  Commencement,  in  his  college  days,  and  has  written 
very  creditable  poetry  for  various  publications. 

ON   LOCH  KATRINE. 
With  bracken  brown  and  purple  heather, 

Clan  Alpine's  ancient  hills  are  drest, 
While  o'er  the  clouds  in  perfect  weather 

Ben  Lomond  lifts  his  airy  crest. 

But  not  a  ripple  stirs  the  tide 

Of  Loch  Katrine,  the  queenly  lake, 
As  o'er  its  silvery  face  we  glide, 

Save  those  the  Highland  oarsmen  make. 

The  ruined  sides  of  Ben  Venue 

Are  steep  and  rugged  as  of  yore, 
When  brave  Fitz-James  and  Roderick  Dim 

Contended  on  your  rocky  shore. 

And  Ellen's  Isle,  romantic  spot, 

A  fit  retreat  for  outlawed  earl, 
Is  no  less  famed  for  Walter  Scott 

Than  for  the  Douglas'  lovely  girl. 


FA13IUS  MAXIMUS  BAY.  577 


The  autumn  evening,  lingering  low, 
Now  hastens,  ere  the  sun  is  set, 

To  fling  its  last  expiring  glow 
Around  each  rocky  minaret, 

That  from  the  bristling  Trosachs  towers, 
Suggestive  of  that  earlier  age 

When  fierce  the  grim  Titanic  powers 
Their  elemental  wars  did  rage. 

But  as  we  near  the  flinty  strand 
Where  still  Loch  Katrine's  waters  lave, 

The  sentry  cliffs,  that  silent  stand 
And  guard  the  G-oblin's  ancient  cave, 

Each  rock  and  hill  and  mountain  bold, 
Beneath  our  feet  reflected  lies ; 

And,  crowned  with  evening's  virgin  gold, 
Doth  dazzle  our  admiring  eyes. 

No  siren  sings  upon  the  cliff, 

And  yet  in  transport  must  we  gaze 

As  gazed  the  boatman  from  his  skiff, 
To  see  the  Lurlei's  mantle  blaze. 

So  sweet  in  sleep  was  never  dream 
As  was  our  waking  dream  that  day ; 

O,was  it,  pray,  a  bright  foregleam 
Of  life  that  shall  endure  alway  ? 


EVENING  IN  THE  PAYS  DE  VAUD. 
O'er  Jura's  craggy  peaks  aglow, 

The  gorgeous  sunlight  lingers ; 
In  deep  crevasse  'mid  Alpine  snow 

It  dips  its  rosy  fingers. 

Along  Lake  Leman's  vine-girt  shore 

Is  mild  and  balmy  weather, 
While  overhead  on  ledges  hoar 

Eternal  icebergs  gather. 

And  where  the  avalanches  creep 

From  off  the  cloud- touched  mountains, 
The  azure  Kb. one,  o'er  rock  and  steep, 

Comes  dashing  from  its  fountains. 
But  now  the  ebon  veil  descends, 

And  night  enshrouds  the  valley, 
Save  where  its  light  the  glow-worm  lends 

In  wall  or  trellised  alley. 


578  7 HE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

I  hear  the  plover's  plaintive  note, 
The  murmur  of  the  billows; 

And  Philomel's  sweet  ditties  float 
From  out  the  sighing  willows. 

Anon  sweet  music  tills  the  air 
From  many  a  garden  bower, 

Where  rustic  swains  and  maids  repair 
To  spend  this  charmed  hour. 

How  like  a  vision  all  things  seem 
Beyond  this  vale  of  shadows; 

E'en  as  I  muse,  the  young  day's  beam 
Lights  up  my  native  meadows. 

And  thus,  alas,  it  is  with  all, 
'T  is  distant  and  uncertain 

If  once  or  time,  or  space,  let  fall, 
'Twixt  us  and  it  the  curtain. 

The  home  that's  left,  the  life  that's  o'er, 
The  friend  that  death  has  taken, 

In  dreamy  hours  return  once  more, 
But  never  if  we  waken. 


ornmce 

Smnuel  Porrance  Seabury  was  born  at  Yarmouth,  then  North  Yarmouth,  April  3, 
1837.  Though  a  large  portion  of  his  life  has  been  spent  away  from  his  native  town 
it  lias  always  remained  his  home.  He  served  in  the  War  of  the  Rebellion- enlisting 
before  the  first  general  call  to  arms- a  true  patriot  with  the  old-time  high  ideal  at  a,  sol 
dier's  duty  and  a  soldier's  privilege.  His  life  has  not  been  largely  devoted  to  literature, 
but  his  occasional  poems  and  sketches  have  been  excellent  in  quality,  and  favorably 
received.  He  is  the  author  of  a  stirring  memorable  poem  entitled  "  The  Union  ^  olim- 
teera  "  which  was  by  request,  published  in  pamphlet  form.  He  is  an  ardent  lover  of 
nature,  and  never  so  happy  as  when  he  can  command  leisure  for  a  sojourn  among  tl 
mountains,  where  he  notes  every  chsinn  and  change  of  scene  with  a  most  loving  fid 
The  grand  and  beautiful  scenery  of  the  Pacific  slope  filled  him  with  delight  and  inspira 
tion,  which  rinds  expression  in  his  poem,  "  The  Snow  Banners  of  the  Alps. 

SNOW  BANNERS  OF  THE  ALPS. 

When  the  north  winds  blow  fiercely  in  winter,  snowy  streamers  are  seen  on  the  high 
est  peaks  of  the  Sierras. 

I  stood  within  a  sheltered  nook, 

'Mid  California's  mountains  grand, 
While  far  upon  the  lofty  Alps 

Came  down  the  north  wind's  shrieking  band. 
With  sound  of  mighty  rushing, 

Like  embattled  hosts  in  fight, 
On  swept  the  storm  exultant, 

With  gathering  trains  of  white. 


SAMUEL  VORRANCE  SEABURY.  57!) 


The  starry  blossoms  of  the  skies 

From  out  their  crystal  bed  are  torn, 
And  madly  up  the  lluted  hills, 

In  wild  and  shim' ring  eddies  borne. 
The  bossy  drifts  are  riven  wide, 

Each  glistening  diamond  taken; 
And  pearly  dust,  from  crag  and  knoll, 

In  sparkling  showers  is  shaken. 

The  stifled  streamlets,  shuddering,  pause, 

And  quivering  falls  grow  pale, 
As  onward  through  the  giant  pines 

Tempestuous  rides  the  gale. 
He  leaves  in  caverns,  weird  and  dark, 

A  guard  of  frosty  elves ; 
Then  arms  the  cliffs  with  bristling  spears, 

And  mans  the  rocky  shelves. 

With  scornful  whiff  he  leaves  the  hills, 

Now  wreathed  in  billowy  foam, 
And  cleaves  the  air  on  mighty  wings, 

Where  Alpine  genii  roam ; 
(Those  awful  domes,  colossal,  high! 

Meet  guardians  of  jeweled  land; 
Unconquered  aye,  while  ages  roll — 

Yield  only  to  their  Maker's  hand!) 

In  thunder  tones  those  massive  walls 

Hurl  back  their  bold  assailant's  shriek, 
But,  fiercely  up  their  shattered  sides, 

He  wins,  and  scales  each  rifted  peak; 
Then  outward  flung,  with  trumpet  blast, 

Wide-spread  against  the  azure  sky, 
From  every  spire  in  wondrous  flight, 

His  white  victorious  banners  fly. 

O  wondrous  sound!     O  wondrous  scene! 

Far  flung,  where  windy  demons  rave, 
Those  clustered  monarchs  of  the  Alps 

Proudly  their  cloud-born  banners  wave. 
Resplendent,  now,  those  crystal  flags 

In  sun-bright  sheen  are  flowing, 
All  radiant,  as  though  myriad  gems 

On  each  bold  peak  were  glowing. 

And  still  on  those  far  distant  Alps, 
Refulgent,  these  bright  banners  shine, 


580  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE, 


The  grand  Sierra's  regal  crown— 

A  joy  that  is  forever  mine. 
And  ever  may  that  gracious  Power, 

That  grandly  decked  these  golden  lands, 
Embalm  them  in  all  loyal  hearts, 

And  save  them  from  all  vandal  hands ! 


SUXSET. 

Just  out  beyond  the  quiet  town, 

A  low-browed,  rocky  hill  looks  down 

On  sea  and  land. 

There,  strolling  slow  at  close  of  day, 
A  twilight  scene  before  me  lay, 

Surpassing  grand. 

With  fragrance  rare,  that  Nature  yields 
From  dewy  vales  and  new-mown  fields, 

The  air  was  filled; 

And  silv'ry  notes,  now  far,  now  near, 
Fell  softly  on  the  charmed  ear, 

From  bird-land  trilled. 

The  sun,  ere  parting  from  the  west, 

Had  wreathed  around  each  mountain  crest 

A  halo  bright ; 

Then  stooped,  the  weary  world  to  bless, 
And  lingered  long,  with  warm  caress, 

On  each  fair  height. 

A  wondrous  light  then  filled  the  skies, 
Till  seemed  the  courts  of  Paradise 

Were  open  thrown, 
And  angel  bands  of  radiant  mien, 
From  out  the  gates  of  pearly  sheen 

Had  earthward  flown, 

In  glowing  hues,  with  artist  hand, 
To  deck  the  sky,  and  sea,  and  land, 

Like  worlds  on  high. 
With  raptured  look,  around  I  glance ; 
•Such  sight,  such  scene,  might  well  entrance 

The  earthly  eye ! 

The  fleecy  clouds,  that  lightsome  float, 
Each  now  became  a  crimson  boat, 
With  amber  sails ; 


HA  R RIET  E.  CHA E L ES.  f>81 

And  guided  by  those  spirit  hands, 
Were  wafted  far  to  unseen  lands, 
By  ether  gales. 

The  woodlands  dim,  where  shadows  creep, 
And  hush  the  insect  world  to  sleep, 

In  soft  moss-bed; 

Rejoice  again,  as  though,  new-born, 
The  rosy  light  of  summer  morn 

O'er  them  were  shed. 

Fair  Casco— by  whose  graceful  side 
A  thousand  lovers  constant  bide, 

While  thousands  more, 
Amid  her  island  bowers  roam, 
Or  seek  the  rocks,  where,  fringed  with  foam, 

The  wild  waves  roar — 

Fair  Casco,  with  resplendent  face, 
Welcomes  the  royal  guests  who  grace 

Her  cavern  halls; 

And  smiles  to  see,  in  raiment  bright, 
Her  sea-nymphs  sport,  'mid  golden  light 

That  downward  falls. 

Passes  the  regal  scene  away; 
It  was  midsummer's  bridal-day 

Of  earth  and  sky! 
And,  as  I  lingered,  loth  to  miss 
One  fading  gleam,  I  saw. them  kiss 

The  day  good-bye. 


Harriet  E.  Charles  was  born  in  Norway,  Me.,  in  1837,  and  lived  for  forty  years  in  her 
native  village.  For  the  p:ist.  ten  years  she  has  resided  in  Lowell.  Mass.  From  childhood 
it  Ins  baen  her  special  delight  to  rhyme,  but  she  rarely  publishes,  except  at  the  solicita 
tion  of  t  rieiuls.  The  following  poems,  printed  in  the  Portland  Transcript,  were  received 
with  much  favor. 

WHEN  MY  SHIP  COMES  IN. 
"When  my  ship  comes  in,"  said  a  blue-eyed  girl, 

;t  My  ship  all  laden  with  gold, 
What  gowns  I'll  wear,  and  what  jewels  rare 

Shall  be  mine  to  have  and  to  hold. 
I'll  sail  away  o'er  the  waters  wide; 

What  a  traveler  I '11  be; 
I'll  stay  where  sunbeams  never  hide 

And  flowers  shall  bloom  for  me. 


682  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

"  Who  knows  but  somewhere  in  a  distant  land 

A  crown  will  be  placed  on  my  brow, 
A  sceptre  grand  I'll  hold  in  my  hand 

And  my  subjects  before  me  shall  bow. 
What  stately  halls  I  may  wander  through, 

With  servants  at  my  command, 
And  they'll  all  obey,"  said  the  maiden  gay, 

"When  I  wave  my  jeweled  wand." 

When  the  ship  came  in  for  the  blue-eyed  girl 

N~o  silver  or  gold  had  she, 
But  jewels  rare,— a  tiny  pair 

Of  loyal  subjects  to  be — 
Her  stately  halls  were  four  square  walls, 

Her  sceptre — no  jeweled  wand, 
But  she  ruled  with  grace  each  loving  heart 

In  the  royal  household  band. 


TO-MORROW. 

The  ruddy-cheeked  mower  is  swinging  his  scythe 

Adown  the  green  sunny  meadow, 
And  he  sings,  as  he  mows,  a  song  as  blithe 

As  if  care  never  cast  him  a  shadow. 
And  his  song  goes  back  to  an  old  refrain: 

"To-morrow,  O  joyous  to-morrow, 
I'll  marry  my  love,  my  darling  Jane, 

And  no  fear  have  I  of  to-morrow." 

The  bright  yellow  buttercups  fell  in  his  path, 

Cut  rudely  from  stem  at  his  bidding, 
But  little  recked  he  of  the  golden  swath, — 

He  thought  of  the  morrow's  wedding, 
Till  'neath  the  tall  grass,  lying  low  at  his  feet, 

A  field-sparrow's  nest  he  espied 
With  three  little  fledglings,  wThile  hovering  round  j 

O'er  his  head,  the  mother  bird  cried, — 
"  To-morrow  my  darlings  would  fly  abroad 

And  be  safely  hidden  from  sorrow, 
But  now,  alas,  they  '11  be  torn  from  me, 

To-morrow,  O  wait  for  to-morrow." 

The  mower  passed  on:  but,  with  loving  eyes, 
Glancing  wistfully  out  o'er  the  bay, 

Softly  said  to  himself,  "No  danger  can  come 
To  my  sweetheart  in  town  to-day, 


ALBERT  COLBY.  583 


For  the  skies  are  blue,  and  the  sun  is  bright, 

Not  a  bit  of  trouble  I  '11  borrow. 
Her  boat  is  staunch,  and  my  heart  is  light 

For  the  morrow,  O  gladsome  to-morrow !  " 

Black  clouds  arose,  and  a  fierce  storm  raged 
O'er  the  land  of  the  mower  and  sparrow, 

The  boat  with  its  burden  lay  wrecked  on  the  sandsr 
The  lover  sat  by  with  folded  hands, 

And  gazed  on  all  that  was  left  of  his  plans 
For  the  morrow,  the  sad  to-morrow. 


ilhrt  & 

^u  <§& 


Albert  Colby,  son  ot  James  and  Mary  (Stirling)  Colby,  the  well-known  author,  pub 
lisher  and  bookseller,  was  born  in  Fryeburg,  Me.,  Jan.  12,  1827.  He  was  educated  at 
Fryeburg  Academy,  and  after  completing  his  course  of  study  at  that  institution  he  taught 
school  several  years.  At  the  age  of  21  he  started  out  in  life  on  his  own  account.  He 
went  to  Lowell,  and  there  engaged  in  business  for  a  manufacturing  company.  Soon 
after  he  made  arrangements  with  certain  publishers  to  introduce  school-books  into  Maine 
and  New  Hampshire.  Not  long  after  he  went  to  Boston,  and  engaged  in  the  business  of 
publisher  and  bookseller.  He  also  carried  on  the  book  trade  in  Richmond,  Va.,  Balti 
more,  New  York,  Boston,  Lowell,  Lawrence,  Biddeford,  Portland,  Bangor,  and  many 
other  cities  of  the  Union.  Mr.  Colby  has  been  an  extensive  publisher,  and  is,  himself, 
the  author  of  several  volumes;  among  them  is  a  "  History  of  the  Bible,"  "  The  Roads 
to  Heaven  and  Hell:  Which  Is  Best?  "  "  Reasons  Why  People  Love  to  go  to  Hell,"  "  Is  It 
Reasonable  to  Believe  in  the  Resurrection  of  the  Natural  Body?"  etc.  In  1875  he  pub 
lished  his  autobiography,  in  which  may  be  found  the  leading  incidents  of  his  life  and  a 
few  of  his  poems.  Oct.  23,  1850,  he  married  Maria  F.  Dresser,  of  Lovell,  Me.,  by  whom 
he  had  four  sons.  The  surviving  son,  John  Stark,  is  now  the  able  and  versatile  editor  of 
the  Lowell,  Mass.,  Vox  Popu/i.  Said  the  old  gentleman  to  a  Lewiston  friend  who  re 
cently  visited  him  at  his  home  in  Fryeburg:  "  I  have  lived  threescore  years,  and  am  now 
on  my  last  decade.  I  never  longed  for  anything  more  than  to  go  where  my  sons  have 
gone.  In  yonder  cemetery,  about  40  ro;is  from  my  house,  are  the  graves  of  six  genera 
tions  of  my  people."  Mr.  Colby  has  written  a  volume  of  poems  which  a  New  York  house 
has  offered  to  publish.  Specimens  have  been  printed  for  gratuitous  distribution  among 
his  friends.  The  following  is  the  last  poem,  or  hymn,  written  by  Mr.  Colby. 


THE   CHRIST  VINE. 

"I  am  the  Vine,  ye  are  the  branches." — John  xv:  5. 
In  a  hot  and  dusty  country  once  there  grew  a  lovely  Vine ; 
The  fruit  of  it  was  wonderful — abundant  and  most  fine ; 
'T  was  a  cure  for  all  misfortunes,  and  the  sick,  the  lame  and  blind 
Were  healed  of  all  their  troubles  if  this  treasure  they  could  find. 

O  I'm  clinging  to  the  Vine,  yes,  I'm  clinging  to  the 

Vine, 

For  I'm  working  in  God's  vineyard,  and  I'm  clinging 
to  the  Vine. 

The  wicked  king  of  Babylon  once  dreamed  he  saw  a  tree 
Overspreading  every  continent  and  reaching  every  sea; 
But  the  Vine  that  grew  at  Bethlehem  exceeds  this  tree  by  far,. 
For  it  grows  beyond  the  clouds  and  it  reaches  every  star. 
O  I'm  clinging  to  the  Vine,  &c. 


;,H4  THE  POET*  OF  MA  INK. 


All  nations  and  all  peoples  from  this  Vine  are  freely  fed; 
It  gives  them  food  and  shelter  and  a  soft  and  downy  bed; 
And  by  clinging  to  this  Helper  to  heaven  all  may  go, 
For  the  branches  reach  the  angels,  and  the  Bible  tells  us  so. 

If  Death,  that  King  of  Terrors,  should  attack  us  here  below, 
No  danger  can  he  bring  to  us  if  to  this  Vine  we  go; 
For  Christ  tells  us  in  the  Bible  that  His  children  never  die, 
If  they  believe  in  Him  and  to  follow  Him  they  try. 

The  branches  of  this  heavenly  Vine  can  never  live  alone; 
If  they  are  disconnected,  our  Lord  will  them  disown. 
Apply,  then,  to  the  Master  and  seize  fast  upon  the  Vine— 
The  Fountain-head  of  life,  and  love  is  yours  as  well  as  mine. 

The  branches  being  equal,  should  not  on  each  other  feed; 

The  Husbandman  will  prune  them  as  He  knowcth  each  hath  need. 

For  Jesus  is  our  Master,  and  we'll  give  Him  all  our  love, 

And  when  earth-life  is  ended,  we  will  rest  with  Him  above. 

The  Christian's  yoke  is  easy,  and  his  burden  is  made  light; 
By  clinging  to  the  Christ- Vine  not  a  battle  we  need  fight, 
For  Jesus  will  protect  us  and  we'll  dwell  with  Him  on  high, 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  are  unknown,  beyond  the  earth  and  sky. 


Rev  Edward  A.  Rand  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  born  April  5.  1837.  He  fitted 
for  college  at  the  Portsmouth  High  School,  and  entered  Bowdoin  in  1853,  graduating  in 
1857  After  teaching  high  schools  in  Gardiner,  Kye,  N.  H.,  Norndgewock,  and  Bulde- 
ford  he  entered  on  theological  study  in  Union  Theological  Seminary,  New  York,  and 
fomnleted  his  course  in  Bangor  Seminary,  where  he  graduated  in  1863.  He  was  ordained 
over  the  Coiigre-ational  Church  in  Ameslmry,  Mass.,  in  1865,  and  settled  over  the  E 
Street  Congregational  Church,  in  South  Boston,  Mass.,  in  18G7,  remaining  until  187G. 
Declining  the  call  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Franklin,  Mass.,  where  he  preached 
for  some  time  he  returned  to  South  Boston,  and,  in  the  autumn  ot  1879,  passed  into  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  assuming  care  of  Christ  Church  Hyde  Park,  Mass..  in 
1R&0  He  now  resides  in  Watertown,  Mass.  Mr.  Hand  has  published  for  young  readers 
''The  School  and  Camp,"  and  "  Bark  Cabin  Series,"  etc.,  and  has  been  a  frequent  con 
tributor,  in  both  prose  and  verse,  to  the  religious  press. 


RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF. 
Is  that  a  step  upon  the  stairs, 

That  makes  its  echo  in  the  night  ? 
Not  that:  the  rain  creeps  down  the  roof; 

I  hear  its  footfalls  hushed  and  light. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  I  seemed 

To  hear  soft  footsteps  on  the  stairs ; 

I've  fancied  so  before,  and  oft 
Amid  the  silence  of  my  prayers. 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  BAND.  535 


I  cannot  see,  but  fancy  still 
My  sainted  child  looks  in  my  face, 

And  think  the  shadow  of  a  wing 

Makes  heavenly  twilight  in  the  place. 

How  oft  within  her  eyes'  blue  depths 
I  looked  as  down  some  shaded  aisle 

That  into  heaven  ran  afar: 
God  only  let  me  look  awhile ! 

The  bitter  rain  has  dripped  but  twice 
Since  last  I  heard  her  little  feet 

Drop  music  all  adowii  the  stairs ; 
And  now— they  press  the  golden  street. 

Such  music  as  the  rain-drops  make, 
Those  passing  feet  made  every  day; 

One  eve  they  stopped,  and  then  I  knew 
That  they  had  climbed  the  heavenly  way. 


POND-LILIES. 
All  through  the  day  the  lilies  float, 

Swayed  gently  by  the  drowsy  streams, 
As  tired  thoughts  in  sleep  obey 

The  changing  impulse  of  our  dreams. 

Through  waters  dead,  who  thought  such  life 
Was  creeping  up  the  tangled  stems, 

To  burst  in  bloom  of  snow  and  gold, 
And  sprinkle  wide  those  floral  gems  ? 

In  those  dark  depths,  who  thought  such  light 
In  folded  bud  was  thus  concealed, 

To  open  into  stars,  with  rays 
As  pure  as  those  by  night  revealed  ? 

Take  heart,  faint  soul !  and  stay  the  grief 
In  whose  sad  presence  man  e'er  weeps ; 

Up  through  life's  dark  and  shaded  depths 
Some  bloom  of  beauty  ever  creeps. 

Some  rays  of  light,  in  darkness  hid, 
Wait  God's  appointed,  better  day, 

To  break  in  stars  whose  peaceful  beams 
Shall  shine  around  our  darkened  way 


586  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Oscar  Laighton,  born  about  1837,  has  lived  all  his  life  thus  far  at  the  Isle  of  Shoals 
having  been  brought  up  with  his  sister,  Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter,  the  distinguished  authoress' 
elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  at  White  Island,  where  their  father  kept  a  light 
house.  He  was  sixteen  years  old  before  he  visited  the  mainland.  For  manv  years  he 
and  his  brother,  Cedric,  have  kept  the  famous  Appledore  House,  on  Appledo"re  Island 
and  are  also  proprietors  of  other  summer  hotels  in  the  vicinity.  They  are  cousins  of  the 
late  Albert  Laighton,  of  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  whose  poems  are  beautiful  and  finished 
productions,  widely  known  and  much  admired.  A  poetic  vein  runs  through  all  of  this 
family,  Albert's  brother,  Benjamin,  who  died  in  his  native  city  in  1873  having  been  a 
metrical  writer  of  more  than  ordinary  ability. 

SONG. 
Sweet  wind  that  blows  o'er  sunny  isles 

The  softness  of  the  sea, 
Blow  tliou  across  these  moving  miles 

ISTews  of  my  love  to  me. 

Ripples  her  hair  like  waves  that  sweep 

About  this  pleasant  shore  ; 
Her  eyes  are  bluer  than  the  deep 

Round  rocky  Appledore. 

Her  sweet  breast  shames  the  scattered  spray 

Soft  kissed  by  early  light: 
I  dream  she  is  the  dawn  of  day 

That  lifts  me  out  of  night. 


AT  SUBSET. 

Come  thou  with  me,  dear  love,  and  see  the  day 
Die  on  the  sea,  and  o'er  the  distant  land 

This  last  faint  glow  of  twilight  fade  away, 
The  while  I  hold  in  mine  thy  gentle  hand. 

The  lessening  light  gleams  on  yon  leaning  sail; 

Slowly  the  sun  has  sunk  beyond  the  hill, 
And  sombre  night  in  silence  draws  her  veil 

Over  us  two,  and  everything  grows  still, 

Save  where  the  tide,  with  constant  ebb  and  flow 
Of  wandering  waves  that  greet  the  steadfast  shore, 

Flashes  fair  forms  of  foam  that  falling  throw 
Their  ardent  arms  round  rocky  Appledore. 

Faint,  like  a  dream,  comes  the  melodious  cry 
Of  far-off  wild  fowl  calling  from  the  deep ; 

The  rosy  color  leaves  the  western  sky, 
Over  the  waves  are  spread  the  wings  of  sleep. 


JOHN  STAPLES  WHITE.  587 


Silent  a  meteor  falls  into  the  night, 
Sweeping  its  silver  shower  across  the  stars;— 

Low  down  Arcturus  sinks  with  waning  light, 
High  in  the  east  climbs  up  the  shining  Mars. 

And  whispering  by  us  with  a  silent  kiss 

Comes  the  sweet  south  wind  o'er  the  slumbering  sea. 
Thou  dearest!  can  such  perfect  joy  as  this 

Be  always  mine,  to  drift  through  life  with  thee  ? 


John  S.  White  is  a  son  of  the  late  Daniel  White,  of  Portland,  a  gentleman  well  known 
<„!  hicrhW^teoTnorf  as  one  of  the  prominent  business  men  of  that  city 


e^eneme  as  °"e  o  e  Prominent  business  men  of  that  citv.  He  attended 
Waterville  College-now  Colby-arid  Law  School  at  Harvard.  Was  admitted  to  GUI n 
berland  Bar  July  17,  1860,  and  practiced  in  Portland  and  Chicago;  but  for  some  vea?s 
past  has  been  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits  in  his  native  city. 

TEMPTED  AND  BETRAYED. 

The  sweet  entrancing  twilight, 

Which  clouds  dull  sense  and  wraps  the  soul  in  dreams, 

Which  opes  the  heart  and  stirs  its  secret  pulses, 

The  Tempter  chose. 
He  came  with  honeyed  words, 
Disdained  deceit,  and  pleased  her  willing  ear 
With  holy  truths  and  high  resolves. 
Honor  on  his  brow  seemed  stamped, 
And  beauty  his,  of  purest  mould; 
What  specious  masks  men  wear ! 
He  plead  his  feigne'd  love, 
And  made  unholy  vows 
He  dreamed  not  to  fulfil; 
And  then— he  threw  aside  the  veil, 
And  calmly  saw  the  ruin  he  had  made  ; 
Nor  prayer,  nor  tear,  nor  vain  reproach 

Could  move  him. 
On  Mm  the  world  still  smiled ; 
And  none  too  high  to  do  him  homage. 
Proud  dames  of  fairest  fame, 
And  maids,  whom  chance  had  left  unscathed, 
Would  nod,  and  smile,  and  greet  with  courteous  mien, 
While  she,  in  heart  and  thought  so  pure, 
Met  only  jest  and  sneer  and  scorn. 
The  cruel  finger  pointed  out  her  shame ; 


f>K8  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  curling  lip  and  careless  word 
Stung  anew  a  wounded  heart; 
She  lived — but  was  a  lifeless  thing, 
For  hope  and  peace  were  dead  within. 


FRAGMENT. 

So  fashion,  wisdom  and  wit, 
Are  part  of  an  endless  thread, 
Loom-set,  by  Nature's  ready  hand, 
To  never-changing  pattern  wed. 

DOUBT. 
Away,  away,  I  welcome  not  Blind  Cupid  from  behind  a  cloud, 

The  shadow  o'er  me  stealing;             E'er  twangs  his  fatal  bow, 
The  past,  the  past  may  be  forgot,      O'er  reason  wraps  a  final  shroud, 

The  future  bright  revealing.  I  e'en  would  have  it  so, 

For  if  my  spirit's  bright  ideal, 

With  thee  may  not  agree, 
I  fain  would  never  know  the  real, 
And  die  love's  devotee. 


ennett. 


Mrs.  Sarah  S.  W.  Bennett  was  born  at  Wilson's  Mills,  July  12,  1837,  the  second  child 
of  Alvan  and  Kancy  (Lombard)  Wilson,  formerly  of  Westbrook.  .Her  parents  were 
among  the  first  settlers  of  the  backwoods  of  Maine  in  the  region  mentioned,  and  Sarah 
at  thirteen  years  of  age,  had  never  entered  a  school-house.  Subsequently  she  attended 
school  in  Portland  for  some  time,  and  then  returned  to  her  early  home.  She  was  mar 
ried,  in  1879,  to  N.  K.  Bennett,  of  Is'ewry.  Mrs.  Bennett  has  betn  local  corrtspondent  for 
several  papers,  and  occasionally  writes  sketches  and  poems. 

IN  PORTLAND. 
Once  more  I  tread  thy.  well-known  streets, 

O  city  of  my  youthful  love  ; 
Time  seems  a  dream,  'tis  joy  complete, 

Among  thy  well-known  scenes  to  rove. 

I  leave  behind  these  last  sad  years, 

So  filled  with  sorrow,  care  and  pain, 
And  catch,  through  the  fast  gathering  tears, 

A  glimpse  of  my  lost  youth  again. 

My  day,  come  back!  O  joy  to  crown 
What  health,  and  youth,  and  hope  could  win  ! 

But  joys  were  wrecked,  and  hopes  went  down, 
Amid  the  leaf-clad  city's  din. 


VIRVIL  PARRIS   WARDWELL.  589 

Now,  walking  lone,  110  smile  to  greet 

From  faces  strange,  and  cold  eyes  look 
Where  once  kind  friends  trod  every  street, 

And  school-bells  sang  of  rule  and  book. 

The  laugh  an  I  snser — for  youth  untaught, 

That  like  its  native  hills,  was  wild, 
Now  with  no  bitterness  is  fraught, — 

It  deeply  hurt  the  little  child. 

One  last,  fond  look  from  Munjoy's  hill, 

O'er  ocean  stretch,  and  sheltered  bay; 
Ah!  how  my  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 

At  sight  of  thy  loved  isles,  to-day ! 

The  sunlit  shores  bring  back  to  me 

The  face  of  many  a  youthful  friend, 
That  paced  thy  sands  in  happy  glee, 

Nor  thought  that  summer  soon  would  end. 

But  autumn  winds  came  all  too  soon, 

And  bright  hues  that  presage  decay; 
The  sun  for  some  went  down  at  noon, 

And  I  am  left  alone,  to-dav ! 


ardwell. 


Virgil  Parris  Ward  well  was  born  in  the  ancient  town  of  Penobscot,  Oct.  29,  1837.  At 
the  age  of  fifteen  his  family  moved  to  Bucksport,  where  he  went  through  the  village 
schools  and  also  the  East  Maine  Conference  Seminary.  In  the  spring  of  1861  he  enlisted 
into  the  service  of  his  country  as  a  member  of  Company  E,  6th  Maine  Regiment  of 
Infantry.  At  the  organization  of  the  company  he  was  elected  2d  Lieutenant,  which 
office  he  acceptably  filled  until  promoted  to  1st  Lieutenant,  which  office  he  was  forced  to 
resign  on  account  of  malarial  disease  contracted  in  tlie  swamps  of  Virginia.  Returning 
home  he  was  employed  mostly  in  teaching  in  his  adopted  town.  In  1871  he  entered  Har 
vard  Divinity  School,  taking  a  special  course.  He  has  occasionally  contributed  articles 
for  the  press.  His  pieces  were  mostly  published  anonymously.  He  has  written  several 
stories  which  have  been  published.  His  only  serial,  "  The  Farm  at  Buccaneer  Cove," 
was  published  in  the  Portland  Transcript.  "The  Sergeant's  Story"  will  be  published 
by  the  Youth's  Companion;  besides  these  he  has  written  several  abort  stories,  sketches 
of  adventure,  etc.  His  attempts  at  poetry  have  been  mostly  at  the  solicitation  ol'  friends 
and  for  manuscript  papers,  the  publications  of  the  village  lyceum.  Of  course  these  fugi 
tive  poems  have  turned  to  prodigals,  and  gone  into  the  "  far  country  of  forgetf  ulness  — 
it  is  doubtful  if  they  ever  "  come  to  themselves."  "  The  Liberator,"  "  Looking  Back," 
and  "  Watching  by  the  Sea,"  give  only  a  glimpse  of  Mr.  Wardwell's  mental  character. 
He  is  capable  of  very  humorous  things.  ''The  Adventures  of  a  Snow  Flake,"  which  is 
too  long  for  this  publication,  is  a  very  amusing  conceit.  He  is  at  present  the  pastor  of 
the  Methodist  Church  at  Ellsworth. 


LOOKING  BACK. 

The  farmer  sits  by  the  glowing  hearth, 
Unmindful  lie  of  the  wintry  winds, 


590  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Under  the  snow  lies  the  frozen  earth ; 

Memory 's  a  harp — he  touches  the  strings : — 
Once  more  the  life-sustaining  field 

With  loads  of  harvest  wealth  is  filled, 
The  shadows  dance  on  the  mead's  green  shield, 

And  wains  of  hay  move  o'er  land  well  tilled. 

The  sailor  sits  in  his  cosy  home, 

Unmindful  he  of  the  fields  of  grain, 
The  breeze  is  hid  in  the  mountain's  dome, 
Yet  the  mind  takes  a  harp  and  wakes  a  strain: 
Now  the  lap  of  waves  sounds  on  his  ear; 

Once  more  he  sills  the  flowing  sea; 
Once  more  the  inviting  harbor  's  near; 
And  now  the  shore  threats  under  the  lee. 

The  soldier  sits  by  his  open  door, 
Unmindful  he  of  the  peaceful  land, — 
The  flowers  lie  on  the  meadow-floor; 

But  memory  rouses  like  a  martial  band: 
Now  the  drum's  long-roll  sounds  in  his  ear; 

Now  sabres  flash  and  cannons  roar; 
Now  the  deadly  charge  fills  him  with  fear; 

Now  victory  perches  on  a  field  of  gore. 

The  old  man  sits  in  the  twilight-land, 

Unmindful  he  of  the  evening  dun, 
For  memory  waves  her  golden  wand, — 

And  he  sees  the  blaze  of  the  morning  sun: 
Out  of  the  grave  of  the  buried  years 

Come  playmates,  children  and  loving  wife; 
Youth  now  in  mirth,  now  smiling  through  tears, 

Beckons  him  back  to  the  vales  of  life. 

The  past  to  us  lifts  a  beck'ning  hand, 
It  calls  us  back  to  the  da;ys  of  yore,— 

Why  wander  there,  '  tis  a  shadowy  land  ? 
Our  realm  lies  forward  with  happy  store; 

"  Sweet  fields  stand  dressed  in  living  green" 
Where  living  waters  forever  flow; 

Where  War  lies  down,  no  more  to  dream, 
And  Age  receives  its  youth's  lost  glow. 

O  for  the  city  where  loved  ones  meet, 

Where  strangers  throng  from  a  thousand  lands; 
Though  parted  here,  we  there  shall  greet 
A  white-robed  host  at  God's  right  hand; 


H.  R.  BROWNE. 


Leaving  the  past  I'll  press  my  way 
O'er  the  flinty  steeps  of  care  and  pain, 

'Till  I  reach  the  clime  of  endless  day 

And  a  palm,  and  robe,  and  crown,  I  gain. 


j.  jj.  §rotvne. 


H.  H.  Browne  was  born  in- the  pleasant  old  town  of  Cornish,  York  County,  Me.,  Nov. 
15,  1837,  being  the  ninth  of  a  family  of  twelve  children  bf  John  and  Mary  (Holmes) 
Browne.  His  father  was  a  fanner  and  mill-owner,  and  among  his  first  occupations  were 
those  of  working  upon  the  farm,  and  in  the  lumber  and  grist-mills.  His  earliest  educa 
tion  was  acquired  at  the  district  school.  Later,  at  the  academy  in  Limerick  and  the  well- 
known  seminaries  at  North  Pai'sonsfield,  Yarmouth,  and  Westbrook,  Me.,  and  Phillips 
Academy,  Exeter,  N.  H.,  teaching  and  attending  school  alternately.  After  leaving  the 
last  named  institution  he  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  Maine,  in  York  County,  in  1862,  and  also  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts,  in 
Essex  County,  in  1878.  Was  married  in  186G,  to  Miss  Emily  M.  Blazo,  daughter  of  Rob 
ert  T.  Blazo,  Esq.,  of  North  Parsonsfield,  Ale.  Mr.  Browne  began  to  write  verses  while 
yet  a  youngster.  The  first  printed  were  in  the  Portland  Transcript.  He  has  since 
been  an  occasional  contributor  of  verse  and  prose  to  various  literary  and  other  publica 
tions.  For  several  years  he  resided  in  Lowell — now  living  in  Boston,  Mass. 


TO  AST  IMPORTED  SKYLARK. 
Born  of  a  clima  beyond  the  sea, 

Whose  hearts  thy  music  prize, 
Right  gladly  do  we  welcome  thee, 

Sweet  songster  of  the  skies. 

Ethereal  thing — spirit  of  air — 
Voice  of  the  shade  and  shine, 

Thy  coming  makes  the  world  more  fair, 
Like  something  half  divine. 

A  spirit  art  thou,  pure,  benign, 

To  bless  the  summer  long, 
In  joy  and  grief,  and  cloud  and  shine, 

With  music  of  thy  song. 

A  spirit  art  thou — hope's  glad  voice — 
Strong-pinioned,  blithe  and  free, 

To  make  the  listener's  heart  rejoice, 
And  soar  aloft  with  thee. 

Though  oft  her  minstrels,  too,  may  sing 
Their  songs  with  wondrous  art, 

Yet  none  such  wealth  of  song  can  bring 
To  cheer  the  list'ner's  heart. 

In  heavenward  flight  at  morning  hour, 

Flecking  the  blue  so  high, 
Thy  notes  of  cheer,  like  sunlit  shower, 

Fall  sparkling  from  the  sky. 


692  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Though  tiling  of  air,  or  light  or  shade, 
Whatever  thou  mayst  be, 

Or  if  in  this  thy  home  be  made, 
Or  if  in  climes  beyond  the  sea, 

Still  blithely  sing  thy  gleeful  lay, 
On  heavenward  pinions  high, 

And  wake  with  joy  the  summer  day, 
Sweet  minstrel  of  the  sky. 


ILLUSION. 

Down  the  long  slope  of  the  hillside 
Spreads  the  green-fringed  turf — 

Down  where  the  belt  of  sand, 

Like  a  border  to  the  land, 
Bounds  the  surf. 

Eyes  may  gaze  till  vision  wearies 
Where  white  sails,   like  phantoms,  wend 
O'er  the  trackless  waste  of  blue, 
Till  sea  and  sky  in  mingled  view 
Meet  and  blend. 

Tranquil  days,  when  hangs  the  haze-light 

Dreamfully  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Far  beyond  the  vision's  sweep 
Deep  blue  mirrors  the  blue  deep, 
Grandly  grand. 

In  the  ages  that  are  numbered, 
Toilers  there,  with  pick  and  spade, 
Formed  the  seaward  sloping  turf, 
From  the  summit  to  the  surf, 
In  even  grade. 

And  a  stately  mansion  reared  they — 
Stately  and  of  princely  worth- 
Now  a  lonely  ruin,  tumbling, 
Day  by  day  to  atoms  crumbling 
Back  to  earth. 

Storm-worn  battlement  and  tower, 
Voiceless  halls  where  black  bats  sleep ; 
Ghastly  windows,  cold,  unsightly, 
From  which  ghostly  eyes  gaze  nightly 
O'er  the  deep. 


LEAN  DEE  8.  CO  AN.  593 


Images  and  idols  broken, 
Trackless  walks  to  weeds  upgrown, 
Vines  unprimed  from  which  no  fruit  drops, 
Sombre  pines  among  whose  sad  tops 
Winds  make  moan, — 

These  are  there,  but  whither  passed  they, — 

They  who  gazed  so  long  before, 
O'er  the  moonlit  sea  that  glistened, 
Or,  when  tempest-tost,  who  listened 
To  its  roar  ? 

Still,  as  erst,  are  white  ships  sailing 

Phantom-like  across  the  blue — 
Some  are  laden — some  are  light — 
Some  are  beaconed  by  false  light—     , 
Some  by  true. 

And  the  sailors,  gazing  landward, 
Dream  how  fair  the  scene  may  be, 

Knowing  not  the  gloom  and  blight 

Of  the  palace  on  the  height 
By  the  sea. 

So  with  wistful  eyes  they  gaze 

All  the  day  and  all  the  night; 
Dreaming  their  illusive  dreams 
That  the  scene  is  what  it  seems, 
Always  bright. 

While  the  eyes  of  phantoms  peer 
From  its  windows,  ghast  and  cold ; 

From  its  gloom  and  silence  drear, 

As  it  crumbles,  year  by  year, 
Back  to  mold. 

Voyagers  o'er  the  sea  of  life, 
'Lured  by  Fancy's  gilded  ray, 

Gaze  beyond  the  blessings  nigh 

To  illusive  scenes  that  He 
Far  away. 


Rev.  L.  S.  Coan,  author  of  the  famons  poem  "  Better  in  the  Mornin',"  was  born  in 
Exeter,  Me.,  Xov.  17,  1837,  and  graduated  at  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Bangor,  in 
1862,  and  \vas  ordained,  as  a  Congregational  minister,  over  the  church  in  Amherst.  In 
1864  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  61st  Massachusetts  Volunteers,  with  the  promise  that, 
when  the  battalion  of  six  companies  was  increased  to  a  full  regiment,  entitling  them  to 
a  chaplain,  he  should  have  that  position.  But  till  the  close  of  the  war  the  regiment  was 


594  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

never  filled.  Reacted  throughout  as  chaplain,  but  was  uncommissioned.  In 'many  of 
his  patriotic  ballads  he  referred  to  himself  as  the  "  Parson."  After  the  war  he  preached 
at  Boothbay,  three  years;  Brownville,  three  years';  Bradford,  six  months;  Somerset  and 
Fall  River,  Mass.,  three  years,  and  at  Alton,  N.  II.,  about  five  years.  He  died  Sept.  23, 
1879.  Mr.  Coan  was  a  valiant  soldier  and  patriot,  and  an  enthusiastic  Free  Mason.  A 
volume  of  his  poems,  which  had  a  large  sale,  was  published  in  1880. 


BETTER  IN  THE  MORNIN'. 

"You  can't  help  the  baby,  parson, 

But  still  I  want  you  to  go 
Down  and  look  in  upon  her, 

An'  read  and  pray,  you  know. 
Only  last  week  she  was  skippin'  round, 

A-pullin'  my  whiskers  an'  hair, 
A-clinibin'  up  to  the  table 

Into  her  little  high-chair. 

"  The  first  night  that  she  took  it, 

When  her  little  cheeks  grew  red, 
When  she  kissed  good-night  to  papa, 

And  went  away  to  bed, 
Sez  she,  "Tis  headache,  papa, 

Be  better  in  mornin' — bye  !' 
An'  somethin.'  in  how  she  said  it 

Jest  made  me  want  to  cry. 

"But  the  mornin'  brought  the  fever, 

An'  her  little  hands  grew  hot, 
An'  the  pretty  red  uv  her  little  cheeks 

Grew  into  a  crimson  spot. 
But  she  lay  there  jest  ez  patient 

Ez  ever  a  woman  could, 
Takin'  whatever  we  gave  her 

Better 'n  a  grown  woman  would. 

"The  days  are  terrible  long  an'  slow, 

An'  she 's  grown  wuss  in  each ; 
An'  now  she's  jest  a-slippin' 

Clear  away  out  uv  our  reach. 
Every  night  when  I  kiss  her, 

Tryin'  hard  not  to  cry, 
She  says  in  a  way  that  kills  me — 

'  Be  better  in  mornin' — bye ! ' 

"She  can't  get  through  the  night,  parson, 
So  I  want  ye  to  come  an'  pray, 

An'  talk  with  mother  a  little,— 
You'll  know  jest  what  to  say; 


LEANDER  S.  CO  AN.  695 

Not  that  the  baby  needs  it, 

Nor  that  we  make  any  complaint 
That  God  seems  to  think  he's  neediii' 

The  smile  uv  the  little  saint." 


I  walked  along  with  the  Corporal 

To  the  door  of  his  humble  home, 
To  which  the  silent  messenger 

Before  me  had  also  come; 
And  if  he  had  been  a  titled  prince 

I  would  not  have  been  honored  more 
Than  I  was  with  his  heart-felt  welcome 

To  his  lowly  cottage  door. 

Night  falls  again  on  the  cottage; 

They  move  in  silence  and  dread 
Around  the  room  where  the  baby 

Lies  panting  upon  her  bed. 
"Does  baby  know  papa,  darling  ?" 

And  she  moves  her  little  face 
With  answer  that  shows  she  knows  him ; 

But  scarce  a  visible  trace 

Of  her  wonderful  infantile  beauty 

Remains  as  it  was  before 
The  unseen  silent  messenger 

Had  waited  at  their  door. 
' '  Papa— kiss— baby.     I '  s  so  tired !" 

The  man  bows  low  his  face, 
And  two  swollen  hands  are  lifted 

In  baby's  last  embrace. 

And  into  her  father's  grizzled  beard 

The  little  red  fingers  cling, 
While  her  husky,  whispered  tenderness 

Tears  from  a  rock  would  bring. 
"  Baby — is— so— sick— papa — 

But— don't— want—you— to— cry;" 
The  little  hand  falls  on  the  coverlet, 

"  Be— better— in — mornin' — bye! " 

And  night  around  baby  is  falling, 
Settling  down  dark  and  dense; 

Does  God  need  their  darling  in  heaven 
That  he  must  carry  her  hence  ? 


696  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

I  prayed  with  tears  in  my  voice, 
As  the  Corporal  solemnly  knelt, 

With  grief  such  as  never  before 
His  great  warm  heart  had  felt. 

O  frivolous  men  and  women  ! 

Do  you  know  that  round  you  and  nigh, 
Alike  from  the  humble  and  haughty, 

Goeth  up  evermore  the  cry: 
"My  child!  my  precious!  my  darling! 

How  can  I  let  you  die!" 
O  hear  ye,  white  lips  whisper, 

"  Be— better— in— mornin' — bye !" 


John  Nelson  Irish  was  born  in  Buckfield,  Jan.  23,  1838-  From  birth  to  the  age  of 
twenty  years  he  lived  on  the  old  homestead  situated  on  the  southern  slope  of  "  North 
Hill,"  which  overlooks  as  beautiful  a  view  of  land  and  water  (the  blue  winding  Nezin- 
scpt)  as  "  e'er  the  sun  shone  on."  He  attended  the  little  red  school-house  on  "South 
Hill,"  a  mile  away,  and  the  village  high  school,  working  on  his  father's  farm  when  the 
home  duties  were  the  most  urgent.  He  taught  his  first  school  when  18  years  of  age.  At 
'20  he  went  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  far  South \vest,  and  nearly  met  his  death.  On  the 
North  Fork  of  the  Licking  River  in  Germanlown,  Ky..  he  spent  one  sick  year,  when  his 
father  went  to  take  him  home.  But  the  old  home  had  passed  out  of  the  possession  of  the 
family,  and  a  new  one  gained  in  the  town  of  Rumford,  a  mile  above  the  Cataract,  where 
he  has  resided  since,  tilling  the  farm,  teaching  district  schools  and  engaging  in  dramatic 
entertainments  when  his  services  have  been  required,  and  giving  lectui-es  on  different 
topics.  He  never  married,  and  he  lives  alone  with  his  mother  since  his  father  died  in 
1879.  He  has  written  but  little  verse  of  late  years,  and  does  not  lay  claim  to  any  spe 
cial  gift  as  a  rhyme-builder.  He  has  no  ambition  for  political  preferment  whatever,  nor 
does  he  find  himself  longing  for  notoriety.  His  ambition  is  to  raise  good  crops  and  to 
cause  "  a  half-dozen  blades  of  grass,"  more  or  less,  "  to  grow  where  but  one  grew  before." 
He  has  written  often  for  the  Home  Farm,  of  late,  and  occas  onally  for  other  papers. 
He  now  furnishes  humorous  ant!  other  articles  for  the  Canton  Telephone. 


EVELYN. 

Fallen  asleep  in  the  flush  of  the  morning 

On  the  green,  sunny  slope  of  life's  mystical  hill. 

Weariness  came  in  her  youth's  early  dawning 
And  her  tired  hands  fell,  and  her  young  heart  is  still. 

Sweet  is  her  rest  underneath  the  wide  willow, 

Undisturbed  by  the  tread  of  the  world  passing  by; 

Death  scattered  poppy-leaves  under  her  pillow 
And  she  cannot  awaken  to  smile  or  to  sigh. 

Fairest  of  maidens,  all  others  excelling, 

She  had  dawned  in  my  soul  like  a  beautiful  star; 

Light  shone  again  in  my  long-darkened  dwelling, 
Faith  and  love  entered  there  that  had  lingered  afar. 


JOHN  NELSON  IRISH.  597 

Vanished  from  sight,  and  now  aimless  I  wander, 
With  a  grave  in  my  heart  and  a  grave  by  the  sea; 

Is  there  a  land  and  a  home  over  yonder, 
With  the  comforts  of  life  for  my  darling  and  me  ? 

WAITING. 
I  have  waited  for  thy  coming 

Many  years ; 
And  my  heart  is  tossed  and  tortured 

With  its  fears. 
In  night  visions  I  behold  thee 

Far  away, 
And  I  wake  to  love  thee  only, 

All  the  day. 
Time,  the  wrecker  and  destroyer, 

Down  the  air 
Sifts  the  white  sand  through  his  fingers 

On  my  hair. 
To  the  borders  of  life's  winter 

Drawing  nigh, 
And  the  harvest-moon  is  fading 

In  the  sky. 
Through  the  summer- woods  I  've  wandered 

All  alone, 
With  a  weight  upon  my  spirit 

'  Like  a  stone. 
I  have  sown  beside  all  waters — 

Loving  thee — 
In  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine 

Warm  and  free. 
I  had  hoped  to  reap  right  early 

Something  sweet, 
And  a  something  that  would  make 

My  home  complete. 
Love  was  given,  nothing  doubting, 

Lavishly, 
Strong  and  constant,  never  changing 

As  the  sea. 
I  am  sad  and  I  am  lonely, 

Weary,  too; 
If  there 's  truth  outside  of  heaven, 

Thou  art  true; 
And  I'll  wait  as  I  have  waited, 

Evermore, 
For  the  music  of  thy  footstep 

At  my  door. 


598  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


oold  Woolmn. 


This  lady,  favorably  known  as  an  author  and  lecturer,  is  the  daughter  of  Hon.  Wil 
liam  Goold,  a  resident  of  Windham,  A\ho  has  rendered  useful  service  to  the  historical 
interests  of  the  State.  She  was  born  in  Windham,  April  30,  1838,  and  her  early  life  was 
passed  in  Portland,  where  she  was  educated  in  the  High  School  of  that  city.  In  1856  she 
became  the  wife  of  its  principal,  ]\Ir.  Moses  Woolson— an  eminent  teacher  who  subse 
quently  held  a  similar  position  in  High  Schools  of  Cincinnati,  Boston,  and  Concord,  N. 
H.  In  the  latter  city,  which  is  her  husband's  native  place,  Mrs.  Woolson  resided  ten 
years.  Their  home  is  now  in  Boston.  She  is  the  author  of  three  volumes,  entitled 
"  Women  in  American  Society,"  "Dress  Reform,"  and  "Browsing  among  Books  "  all 
published  by  Roberts  Brothers,  of  Boston.  Of  late  years  she  has  given  courses  of  lec 
tures  on  English  Literature  in  connection  with  History,  in  Boston,  Washington  Kew 
York,  and  other  citits.  Her  poetry  consists  of  fugitive 'pieces,  not  yet  collected  into  a 
volume. 

MAINE'S  QUEEN-CITY. 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  CENTENNIAL  POEM. 

Ye  bid  me  wake,  with  touch  unskilled  and  weak, 

The  mighty  harp  that  elder  bards  have  strung; 
Ye  bid  my  faltering  voice  essay  to  speak 

A  city's  joy,  where  nobler  strains  have  rung. 
Nor  festal  hymn,  nor  gladsome  lay  were  mine 

Should  once  her  poets  to  my  vision  rise, 
Like  those  wrapt  singers  that  the  Florentine 

Beheld  with  reverent  eyes; 
And  mute  were  I  did  venturous  thought  recall 

That  laureled  name  on  London's  minster- wall. 

Yet  leaps  my  heart  to  celebrate  the  fame 

Of  that  dear  city  which  we  proudly  boast 
Oldest  and  largest  that  our  State  can  claim 

In  all  her  leagues  of  bay-indented  coast. 
From  East  to  West,  throughout  her  broad  domains, 

Swept  by  their  lordly  rivers  flowing  free, 
In  lake-strewn  forests  and  pine-mantled  plains 

No  spot  so  fair  to  see: 
Within  her  far-famed  bay  she  sits  serene, 

Of  all  Maine's  cities  the  acknowledged  queen. 

Like  posted  sentinels  in  outer  courts, 

Her  guards  and  watchmen  stand  on  many  a  steep, 
That  she  may  dwell  secure;  three  frowning  forts 

Train  their  long  guns  in  menace  o'er  the  deep, 
With  call  imperious  challenging  her  foes ; 

Scanning  that  ocean  path  by  night,  by  day, 
The  old  red  tower  011  her  hill-top  knows 

What  rovers  seek  her  bay; 
While  headland  lights,  like  torches  o'er  the  foam 

Of  darkling  waters,  guide  her  wanderers  home. 


ABBA  GO  OLD  WOOL  SON.  599 


Child  of  the  sea,  her  eager  looks  are  sent 

Towards  distant  Europe,  o'er  the  rolling  surge; 
Behind  her  spreads  a  teeming  continent, 

Herself  the  mistress  of  its  eastern  verge. 
Yet  linking  her  with  far  Pacific  lands 

Speed  the  great  engines  rushing  to  and  fro 
O'er  the  straight  pathway  of  their  iron  bands; 

While  swift  her  white  ships  go, 
Like  gleaming  shuttles,  flying  o'er  the  main 

To  English  ports,  or  shores  of  France  and  Spain. 

Her  roving  sailors,  from  their  floating  decks, 

Descry  no  lands  so  lovely  as  her  own: 
How  bright  soe'er  the  realm,  it  little  recks 

To  them  what  splendors  gild  a  foreign  zone. 
And  though  her  sons  may  rear  their  homesteads  well 

On  southern  plain  and  many  a  western  farm, 
Where  love  and  fortune  weave  a  potent  spell, 

She  holds  a  lasting  charm : 
Long  years  may  pass,  and  wide  her  children  roam, 

Yet  on  her  hearth-stones  burn  the  fires  of  home. 

In  summer's  sunshine  every  land  is  fair; 

But  fair  are  her  dear  coasts  in  sun  or  shade; 
Nor  winter's  sleet,  nor  August's  sultry  air, 

Can  make  her  other  than  fond  nature  made : 
Better  her  ocean  gales,  her  spray-swept  shore, 

Her  fog-clouds  driven  o'er  the  shivering  land, 
Her  wild  tempestuous  breakers,  and  their  roar, 

Than  alien  zephyrs  bland. 
No  storms  can  wreck  her  beauty;  clearer  glows 

Her  freshened  lustre,  like  a  rain-dashed  rose. 

For  nature  loves  her  well;  a  verduous  wood 

Of  waving  boughs  seems  sheltering  the  town ; 
And  Yaughan's  old  oaks,  a  mighty  brotherhood, 

On  Bramhall  stand ;  though  pines  no  longer  crown 
Mun joy's  broad  slopes  descending  to  the  sea. 

In  swaying  elms  the  wild  bird  builds  her  nest; 
Across  these  ancient  gardens  still  the  bee 

Goes  murmuring  on  her  quest; 
And,  searching  for  lost  springs,  the  clragon-fly, 

On  wings  of  steely  gauze,  darts  whirring  by. 

For  man  alone  has  not  possessed  this  spot, 
This  strip  of  land  between  encircling  seas; 


000  THE  POETS  OF"  MAINE. 


The  tiny  races  whom  we  value  not 

Have  danced  their  summer  revels  down  the  breeze. 
And  lightly  slept  within  their  native  earth ; 

And  still  their  kindred  in  the  sunbeams  dwell. 
We  know  no  story  of  their  nation's  birth, 

Of  them  no  records  tell; 
But  nature's  self  their  passing  lives  may  scan 

As  parts  essential  to  her  perfect  plan. 

Not  all  the  ships  that  in  its  haven  ride 

Can  take  one  native  charm  from  Casco  Bay; 
Dark,  plumy  forests  swing  above  the  tide 

On  island  shores,  where  still,  in  careless  play, 
The  wild  duck  floats,  the  lonely  plover  calls ; 

In  wave-washed  nooks,  by  human  eye  unseen, 
The  glistening  kelp  forever  lifts  and  falls; 

And  silvery  birches  lean, 
In  sunny  coves,  above  the  hard,  white  sand, 

Where  glides  no  skiff,  no  rover  seeks  the  land. 

When  home-bound  from  the  deep,  a  tiny  shape 

On  dancing  waves,  the  fisher's  boat  is  seen, 
Rounding  the  eastern  shores  of  that  broad  cape 

Named  at  her  death  for  England's  mighty  queen, 
How  welcome  to  his  gaze  each  curving  line 

From  Scarboro's  river-Points  to  Barberry  creek! 
At  Spurwink's  mouth  the  long,  white  beeches  shine; 

Beyond,  his  glances  seek 
Richmond's  lone  island,  on  whose  farthest  edge 

Breaks  the  wild  surf  o'er  Watts's  fatal  ledge. 

Its  quiet  farm-house  has  no  tale  to  tell 

Of  vanished  fleets  and  storehouses  and  pier; 
His  fancy  hears  no  pealing  chapel-bell, 

Nor  sees  young  Parson  Jordan  sauntering  near, 
Joining  the  captains  from  their  busy  ships, 

And  Mistress  Sarah  in  her  London  gown, 
And  passing  in  to  pray  with  fervent  lips 

For  good  King  Charles's  crown. 
Nor  does  his  thought  that  earlier  vision  hold 

Of  slaughtered  trader,  and  his  buried  gold. 

Near  the  Two  Lights,  where  dangerous  waters  glide, 
He  hears  old  Anthony's  unceasing  knell; 

Through  Portland  Roads  he  hurries  with  the!tide 
Past  their  white  tower,  and  feels  the  rising  swell 

That  rocks  the  skiffs  in  Simonton's  broad  cove; 
From  Preble's  rampart  booms  the  sunset^gun 


S  US  AN  EH  YCE  BECK  WITH.  601 


O'er  Cashing' s  Point,  where  erst  a  village  throve; 

And  now  the  sunken  sun 
Crimsons  the  wave,  where  gleaming  silks  outblown 

Once  scarfed  a  sea  with  priceless  wreckage  strewn. 

To  one  who  sits  upon  the  cliff  afar, 

Noting  the  waning  splendors  of  the  light, 
He  moves,  a  floating  speck,  behind  the  bar 

Of  Stanford's  ledge,  and  soon  is  lost  to  sight. 
Against  the  lingering  radiance  of  the  west, 

With  dome  and  slender  steeples  ranged  a-row, 
The  tree-embowered  city  on  her  crest 

Burns  in  a  golden  glow; 
While  warmer  tints,  that  through  the  waters  play, 

Flush  the  far  sails  and  mantle  all  the  bay. 

Like  lovely  Venice  throned  above  the  tidn, 

At  such  an  hour  the  glimmering  city  seems; 
Or  some  rich  caravan,  at  eve  descried 

Nigh  to  Damascus,  journeying  in  our  dreams. 
And  when  the  misty  branches  sway  and  glance, 

We  see  an  army's  glittering  legions  stand, — 
With  blazing  standards  lifted  to  advance ; 

One  signal  of  command, 
And  the  great  host  shall  move  forever  by, 

Their  floating  banners  sweeping  down  the  sky. 


echwith. 

Born  at  Lubec,  Me.,  May  4,  1838;  married  May  30,  1854;  died  June  2,  1872.     Her  daugh- 
sr  writes  of  her:    "  She  was  possessed  of  rare  intelligence  and  wit,  with  a  warm  poetic 


Fisher  s  Wife  seems  to  have  derived  some  color  from  a  deep  sorrow  fallen  upon  her  in 
her  latest  days,  the  sudden  violent  death  of  a  little  daughter.  This  baby  girl  was  killed 
wU  ^"Jter-wagpn  that  had  paused  before  their  gate.  Going  to  find  her  little  child,  she 
was  smitten  with  the  sight  of  its  crushed  body  lying  in  the  road,  and  the  flutter  of  its 
httle  dress,  on  that  gusty  day,  haunted  her  till  she  left  our  land  of  winter  behind  her 
The  following  poem  made  its  first  appearance  in  the  St.  John  Telegraph. 

THE  FISHER'S  WIFE. 
Lonely,  desponding— the  gathering  gloom 
Slowly  filling  the  quiet  room — 
Sits  the  fisher's  wife,  with  disheveled  hair;— 
What  does  she  see  in  the  darkness  there  ? 

Outside,  the  breakers,  with  sullen  dash 
Fling  high  their  spray  to  the  window-sash, 
That,  by  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  moonlight  thrown, 
Seems  like  prison-bars  on  her  floor  of  stone. 

40 


602  THE  POET 8  OF  MAINE. 


On  this  same  night,  ten  years  before, 
While  the  angry  sea  lashed  the  rock-bound  shore, 
She,  anxiously  watching,  trimmed  her  light; — 
And  the  waves  were  cold,  and  the  moon  was  bright. 

"P,et  the  light,  my  lass,  by  the  cottage  door," 
Said  the  fisher  that  morn  as  he  sought  the  shore ; 
"The  moon  will  be  up  when  I  come  to-night; 
Her  wake  once  crossed,  I  shall  be  all  right." 

With  earnest  eye,  since  the  waning  day, 
She  had  followed  the  moon  in  her  upward  way, 
And  her  quivering  wake  on  the  midnight  sea, 
If  there  the  looked-for  boat  might  be. 

'Mong  the  rocks,  where  shadows  so  darksomely  hide, 

Where  the  sea-foam  that  wreathed  them  was  gone  with  the  tide 

With  tight' iiing  hands  o'er  the  sickening  heart, 

With  blanching  cheek,  and  lips  apart— 

Like  a  statue  she  stood,  so  cold  and  white, 

Searching,  but  vainly,  into  the  night. 

A  tiny  form  with  outstretched  hands, 
And  pink  feet  glancing  among  the  sands, 
And  a  baby  voice— "Mamma,  mamma!" 
But  the  merciless  sea,  shock  after  shock, 
Assaulting  the  solid  towering  rock 
With  fearful  echoes,  re-echoing  far, 
Swallows  the  cry; 

Did'st  thou  hear  it  not  ? 
******* 

There's  a  desolate  heart  and  an  empty  cot. 

And  that  little  form,  uncoffined  and  white, 
Revealed  by  the  gleams  of  the  pale  moonlight, 
As  pulseless  it  lay  on  the  surf-washed  shore, 
Shall  rest  on  her  memory  evermore. 

'Tis  this  she  sees  in  that  quiet  room, 
Where  all  is  wrapped  in  the  gathering  gloom; 
.  And  alone— God  help  her!  she  sits  apart, 
With  folded  hands  and  a  broken  heart ! 


Moses  Owen  was  born  in  ^ 

riew  of 
poems 


MOSES  OWEN.  (K)3 


are  characterized  by  patriotic  feeling  and  a  deeply  religious  sentiment.  They  have  been 
widely  read.  His  was  a  poet's  nature;  he  loved  the  woods,  to  see  the  wild  bird  mirror 
its  form  in  some  lonely  lake;  to  watch  the  white-winged  ships  sail  down  the  Kennebec. 
Dearly  did  this  poet  love  '  Casco's  fair  islands,'  and  summer  was  the  season  whose 
praises  he  always  sung."  Mr.  Owen's  death  occurred  in  the  hospital,  at  Augusta,  Novem- 
uGFj 1878* 


THE  RETURNED  MAINE  BATTLE-FLAGS. 

Nothing  but  flags— but  simple  flags, 

Tattered  and  torn  and  hanging  in  rags; 

And  we  walk  beneath  them  with  careless  tread, 

Nor  think  of  the  host  of  the  mighty  dead 

That  have  marched  beneath  them  in  days  gone  by, 

With  a  burning  cheek  and  a  kindling  eye, 

And  have  bathed  their  folds  with  their  young  life's  tide, 

And,  dying,  blessed  them,  and.  blessing,  died. 

Nothing  but  flags— yet,  methinks,  at  night 
They  tell  each  other  their  tales  of  fright; 
And  dim  spectres  come  and  their  thin  arms  twine 
'Round  each  standard  torn  as  they  stand  in  line! 
As  the  word  is  given,— they  charge!  they  form! 
And  the  dim  hall  rings  with  the  battle's  storm! 
And  once  again  through  the  smoke  and  strife, 
Those  colors  lead  to  a  nation's  life. 

Nothing  but  flags— yet  they're  bathed  with  tears, 
They  tell  of  triumphs,  of  hopes,  of  fears; — 
Of  a  mother's  prayers,  of  a  boy  away, 
Of  a  serpent  crushed,  of  the  coming  clay ! 
Silent,  they  speak,  and  the  tear  will  start 
As  we  stand  beneath  them  with  throbbing  heart, 
And  think  of  those  who  are  ne'er  forgot, 
Their  flags  come  home— why  come  they  not  ? 

Nothing  but  flags— yet  we  hold  our  breath, 
And  gaze  with  awe  at  those  types  of  death ! 
Nothing  but  flags,  yet  the  thought  will  come, 
The  heart  must  pray  though  the  lips  be  dumb ! 
They  are  sacred,  pure,  and  we  see  no  stain 
On  those  dear  loved  flags  at  home  again; 
Baptized  in  blood,  our  purest,  best, 
Tattered  and  torn,  they  're  now  at  rest. 

THE  MAINE  GENERAL  HOSPITAL  FAIR. 
A  State,  united,  hastes  with  loving  hands 
To  wreathe  sweet  garlands  that  can  never  fade ; 


604  TEE  POETS  OF  MA INE. 


Love  binds  each  flower  with  her  soft  silken  bands, 
Her  voice  is  gentle,  yet  it  is  obeyed. 

*  *  *  *  *          .       * 

Sweet  time  of  June !  thy  lengthening  days  shall  bring 

Treasures  untold  to  crown  the  Summer's  day; 
Each  blade  of  grass  and  fragrant  flower  shall  sing, 

That  Love  keeps  watch  and  ward  for  aye  and  aye. 
The  farthest  east  speaks  to  the  distant  west, 

And  north  and  south  clasp  hands  at  Mercy's  call; 
The  feast  is  ready— no  reluctant  guest 

Comes  to  the  table  Love  has  spread  for  all. 
What  nobler  thought  than  in  the  human  heart 

Sweet  Pity  finds  a  place  nor  yet  has  flown; 
Does  Sorrow  call  ?— the  tear  unchecked  will  start, 

And  Love  proclaims  that  Maine  will  guard  her  own. 


jjtltll    £ 

This  lady— who  preserves  in  an  unusual  degree  the  freshness  and  cheerfulness  of  ear 
lier  life— has  her  home  in  the  quiet  riverside  town  of  Orrington,  where  she  was  born 
August  3  1838  the  ninth  of  a  family  of  twelve  children.  When  but  fifteen  years  old  she 
"began  to  court  the  muses,  and  her  first  verses  were  printed  under  the  signature, 
"itebecca"  The  greater  number  of  her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Bangor  Whig 
and  Courier  to  which  paper  she  has  regularly  contributed  during  the  past  sixteen  years. 
In  these  writings  are  seen  her  love  of  nature  and  of  home,  her  sympathy  with  children, 
her  reverence  for  age,  her  simple  piety,  her  hopefulness  and  tenderness.  >N  hile  in  her 
verse  we  discover  how  much  alive  she  is  to  others,  we  also  discern 

"  The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  her  own  heart." 

Miss  Pierce  has  recently  returned  from  an  extended  trip  in  Southern  California. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Within  a  pleasant  vale  it  stands— 

The  quiet  homestead,  quaint  and  old : 
Dearer  than  wealth  of  all  the  lands, 
Its  memories  I  hold. 

Tender  and  sweet  they  are  to  me ; 

And  yet  not  all  unmixed  with  pain ; 
Like  April  days  they  seem  to  be 

Woven  of  sun  and  rain. 

'Tis  still  unchanged  by  Time's  rude  hand; 

It  wears  no  look  of  drear  decay : 
There  is  to  me  in  all  the  land 

No  fairer  spot  to-day. 


REBECCA  RUTS  PIERCE.  605 

Yet,  softly  brooding  over  all, 

There  lingers  in  each  quiet  room 
A  shadow  that  doth  ever  fall 

With  touch  of  wintry  gloom, 

For  some,  alas!  have  gone  from  sight, 
Who  walked  with  us  the  long  years  through, 

And  made  the  dear  old  home  more  bright ; — 
We  who  are  left  are  few. 

When  Xight  doth  draw  her  curtain  round, 

We  feel,  unseen  they  hover  near — 
That  'mid  the  silent  hush  profound, 

They  come — the  dead  and  dear! 

They  come,  methinks,  and  as  of  old, 

While  glide  the  solemn  hours  apace, 
They,  in  the  old-time  likeness,  hold 

Each  his  accustomed  place. 

For  O,  the  river  is  not  wide ; 

Love  leaps  all  barriers  we  know; 
And  loved  ones  on  the  other  side 

Do  ofttimes  come  and  go. 


FROM  SEA  TO  SEA. 

One  day,  not  long  ago,  there  came  to  me 
On  speedy  wings  from  a  far  distant  land, 

Across  the  continent,  from  sea  to  sea, 
A  letter,  traced  in  a  familiar  hand. 

A  letter  from  a  friend  it  proved  to  be ; — 
Sweet  words  of  love  and  friendly  cheer  from  one 

Who,  long  since,  hand  in  hand  with  destiny, 
Went  far  away  toward*the  setting  sun. 

Children  we  were  together,  she  and  I; 

Our  heads  in  infancy  one  pillow  pressed; 
We  listened  to  the  self-same  lullaby, 

Cradled  upon  a  tender  mother's  breast. 

With  homesick  yearning  for  a  kindred  face 
To  cheer  her  loneliness,  she  bade  me  come 

Across  the  intervening  breadth  of  space, 
And  be  the  welcome  sharer  of  her  home. 


606  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  as  I  laid  the  tender  missive  by, 
My  thoughts  wandered  afar  in  silent  quest 

To  others,  loved  as  true  and  tenderly, 
Who,  one  by  one,  went  from  the  dear  home  nest. 

From  that  far  city  in  the  Silent  Land 
Do  they  not,  too,  send  greetings  o'er  the  sea  ?— 

For  well  I  know  each  one  of  that  dear  band 
Is  waiting  on  the  other  shore  for  me. 

For  the  pale  boatmen  they  are  watching  there, 
To  bring  me  safely  o'er  the  silent  flood, 

To  that  bright  city,  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Whose  builder  and  whose  architect  is  God. 


LITTLE  ONES. 

Little  ones,  claiming  our  care— 

Heaven-lent  treasures  are  they ; 
Flowers,  making  fragrant  and  fair 

Life's  dull  and  desolate  way: 
Glad  as  a  bird  on  the  wing; 

Easily  grieved  or  beguiled; 
A  tender  and  delicate  thing 

Is  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child. 

Make  pleasant  the  paths  for  their  feet; 

Make  the  little  ones  glad  while  you  may; 
The  morning  of  life  is  so  fleet — 

So  quickly  it  passes  away; 
Too  soon  will  the  swift-flying  years, 

Care-laden,  appear  in  their  turn ; 
And,  written  in  sorrow  and  tears, 

The  lessons  of  life  tfiey  will  learn. 

Sweet  human  blossoms  are  they, 

Claiming  our  tenderest  care, 
And  making  us  better  each  day, 

And  stronger  life's  burdens  to  bear; 
Kindness  and  love  are  their  due, 

And  words  that  are  pleasant  and  mild ; 
There  is  nothing  so  tender  and  true 

As  the  sensitive  heart  of  a  child. 


HENR Y  MEL VILLE  KING.  607 


few/;  Mltlvilh  Minn. 

ie       '^^>  L      <^y       o 


Rev.  Henry  Melville  King  was  born  in  Oxford,  Me.,  Sept.  3, 1838,  and  is  a  son  of  the 
late  Samuel  H.  King  and  a  brother  of  Hon.  Marquis  F.  King.  ex-Mayor  of  Portland. 
The  family  removed  from  Oxford  to  Portland,  in  February,  1845.  Studied  at  the  Park 
Street  Grammar  School  under  Masters  Jackson  and  Pickering,  and  was  fitted  for  college 
at  the  High  School  under  Prof.  Moses  Lyford,  being  in  the  same  class  with  Rev.  Edward 
N.  Pomeroy  and  Rev.  Joseph  "W.  Morse.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College  in  1856,  and  grad 
uated  in  1859.  He  was  the  Poet  at  the  anniversary  of  the  Athenian  Society  in  1859.  His 
oration  at  the  commencement  was  a  poem,  which  closed  with  a  tribute  to  Prof.  Parker 
Cleaveland  who  died  during  his  senior  year.  Having  chosen  the  profession  of  the  min 
istry,  he  entered  the  Baptist  Theological  Institution  at  Newton  Centre,  Mass.,  where  he 
remained  three  vears,  graduating  in  June,  18G2.  Was  ordained  at  the  Free  Street  Bap 
tist  Church  in  Portland,  in  August,  18G2,  and  returned  to  the  Theological  Seminary  as 
Associate  Professor  in  the  Hebrew  Language.  Accepted  the  invitation  of  the  Dudley 
Street  Baptist  Church  in  Roxbury,  Mass.,  (now  Boston)  to  become  its  pastor,  and  assumed 
the  duties  of  that  office  in  April,  1863.  Received  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Divinity  from  Colby  University  in  1877.  Remained  pastor  of  the  same  church  in  Boston 
for  nearly  nineteen  years,  and  in  January,  1882,  accepted  the  call  of  the  Emmanuel  Bap 
tist  Church  in  Albany,  N.  Y.,  Avhere  he  now  resides. 

TO  REV.  HENRY  S.  BURRAGE,  D.  D. 

OX   HIS    FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

There's  some  mistake;  it  cannot  be! 
Are  my  eyes  blurred  that  they  can't  see  ? 
Fifty?    No,  no,  there's  something  wrong, 

I'll  not  believe  it  without  proof,— 

Proclaim  it  not  upon  the  roof. 
He 's  hale  and  hearty,  young  and  strong ; 

The  almanac  tells  not  the  truth, — 
There's  some  mistake;  it  cannot  be ! 

I  know  him  well;  he's  but  a  youth. 

There  's  some  mistake;  it  cannot  be! 
Does  time  go  faster  than  to  me  ? 
And  I'm  just  turning — never  mind. 

Why  fifty 's  half  a  hundred !     True ! 

'Tis  past  the  zenith  in  the  blue 
Of  life's  fair  sky;  and  so  you'll  find 

In  the  birth-register,  forsooth, 
There's  some  mistake;  it  cannot  be, 

I  know  him  well;  he 's  but  a  youth. 

Fact!    He  left  "  Brown"  in  sixty-one; 
And  when  at  "Newton"  he'd  begun, 
His  soul  was  fired  with  patriot  zeal, 

And  forth  he  went  to  Freedom's  war, 

And  served  three  years,  and  bears  the  scar, 
And  deeper  wounds  than  flesh  can  feel, 

In  memories  of  those  bitter  years, 
Of  battles  lost  and  battles  won, 

When  earth  was  drenched  in  blood  and  tears.  • 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  when  at  length  from  sea  to  sea 

Peace  was  proclaimed,  the  slaves  were  free, 

And  all  the  land  with  gladness  thrilled, 

He  turned  him  to  his  books  again, 

That  he  might  preach  to  dying  men 
The  Gospel  with  God's  mercy  filled. 

His  studies  finished,  then  began, 
After  a  year  in  Germany, 

Life's  work  for  truth,  and  God,  and  man. 
"The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword," 
And  both  he's  wielded  for  the  Lord. 
With  voice  and  type  he's  utterance  given 

To  God's  whole  truth  by  him  received, 

And  firmly,  honestly  believed, 
As  it  should  be  by  one  whom  Heaven 

Has  called 'to  make  it  known,  and  sent 
To  preach  this  Word  revealed,  adored 

As  its  last  Will  and  Testament. 
The  studious  years  have  quickly  fled, 
As  by  the  Holy  Spirit  led, 
Within  that  modern  wilderness 

He 's  sought  the  tempted,  who  have  died 

For  love  of  Him  once  crucified, 
The  Anabaptists,  German,  Swiss, 

And  brought  to  light  the  hidden  truth 
Of  noble  souls  whose  blood  was  shed — 

With  all  the  ardor  of  his  youth. 

The  books  he's  written,  who  can  tell  ? 
The  work  he 's  done,  and  done  so  well  ? 
But  then,  his  life 's  a  busy  one, 

Xo  idling  vain  with  weak  desire, 

But  all  the  irons  in  the  fire; 
'Tis  thus  by  him  success  is  won, 

And  so  he's  lived  a  life  intense, 
A  life  not  measured  by  the  bell, 

And  lived  for  God  and  truth's  defence. 
I'll  not  believe  it.     Why,  just  see 
How  young  he  looks,  friend  H.  S.  B ! 
The  way  to  reckon  is  reversed. 

The  past  is  not  of  life  the  test, 

But  its  large  promise  for  the  rest; 
And  last  there  are  that  shall  be  first. 

Who  says  he  's  fifty  ?     State  the  truth, 
There's  some  mistake;  it  cannot  be! 

I  know  him  well;  he's  but  a  youth. 


JOHN  DAVIS  LONG.  609 


i  D.  Long,  the  thirty-second  governor  of  Massachusetts,  and  whose  "wise. 
linistration  reflected  great  credit  upon  himself,"  was  born  in  Bucklield,  Me.» 


Hon.  John 

prudent  admini ,., 

Oct.  27, 1838,  the  youngest  of  four  children.  To  his  father,  Zadoc  Long,  whose  poetical 
talent  is  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  John  was  largely  indebted  for  his  schol 
arly  training  and  moral  guidance.  Our  author  had  an  early  fondness  for  books,  and  his 
systematic  methods  of  study  enabled  him,  at  the  age  of  nine,  to  enter  Hebron  Academy. 
He  gained  admittance  to  Harvard  College  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  and  at  once  took  high 
rank.  He  was  the  author  of  the  class  ode,  sung  on  Commencement  day.  After  leaving 
college,  Mr.  Long  was  Principal  of  the  time-honored  Westford  Academy  two  years,  win 
ning  the  esteem  of  his  pupils  arid  the  love  of  the  whole  people.  From  Westford  he 
passed  to  the  Harvard  Law  School;  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1861,  and  opened  an 
office  in  his  native  town.  After  a  two  years  stay,  his  ambition  led  him  to  try  his  fortunes 
in  Boston,  and  being  blessed  with  robust  health  and  a  faculty  of  dispatching  office-busi 
ness  with  remarkable  rapidity  and  correctness,  he  was  soon  "  at  the  top  of  the  ladder." 
Making  his  home  in  Hingham,  in  1875  he  was  elected  to  represent  the  Second  Plymouth 
District  in  the  Legislature:  re-elected  in  187G;  Speaker  of  the  House  for  two  successive 
years;  Lieutenant-Governor  in  LS78,  and  Governor  from  1879  until  1883;  Member  of  Con 
gress  for  48th,  49th  and  50th  Congresses.  Mr.  Long  has  been  twice  married;  his  first  wife 
was  MaryW.  Glover,  of  Hingham,  who  died  during  the  years  of  his  governorship;  his 
present  wife,  to  whom  he  was  married  May  22,  1886,  was  Agnes  Pierce.  Mr.  Long  was  a 
contributor  to  the  press  at  an  early  age;  he  published  a  translation  of  Virgil's  ^jEneid  in 
Boston,  in  1879,  and  a  volume  of  original  poems  -"  Bites  of  a  Cherry,"  dedicated  to  his 
father.  Both  books  were  very  favorably  received  His  inaugurals  and  public  addresses 
abound  in  graceful  diction,  and  are  invested  with  more  than  ephemeral  interest. 


TO  MY  WIFE. 

PER   ASTRA   AD    C(EH'M. 

Time  was  1  loved  your  soulful  eyes 
For  their  own  sake — nor  now  repent, 

So  soft  the  love-light  in  them  lies — 
Of  every  mood  so  eloquent! 

Time  was  I  loved  the  stars  and  skies 
For  their  own  sake— nor  now  less  fond; 

Yet  now  far  past  their  range  my  eyes 
Go  searching  for  the  heaven  heyond. 

So,  searching  through  your  eyes,  mine  grope 

Ah !  not  in  vain,  to  find  within. 
The  heaven  of  my  immortal  hope, 

The  soul-life  of  diviner  kin. 

Thus  your  dear  eyes  long  since  have  been 
Not  more  the  light  by  which  I  trod 

Than  gateways  where  I  entered  in 

To  breathe  the  love  and  peace  of  God. 


MARGARET. 
I  am  a  little  three-year  old ; 

My  eyes  are  heaven,  my  hair  is  gold. 
What  heaven  and  gold  are,  I  don't  know: 

But  what  I  mean  is,  ma  says  so. 


610  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Waked  by  the  birdies  and  the  sun, 
Till  night  I  chatter  and  I  run, 

And  am  so  happy  all  day  through 
I  make  all  others  happy,  too. 

They  say  my  face  is  sweet  and  fair 
Beneath  the  big  brown  hat  I  wear : 

Sometimes  I  stick  it  with  a  trim 
Of  dandelions  round  the  brim. 

At  night  when  tire  my  little  feet 
I'm  glad  my  bread  and  milk  to  eat, 

In  mamma's  lap  my  head  I  lay; 
This  is  the  prayer  I  always  say— 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
Father  in  heaven,  take  care  of  me: 

May  my  sleep  be  sound  and  sweet, 
And  my  waking  happy  be." 

In  bed,  tucked  safe  from  harm  and  cold, 
Shadows  and  slumber  round  me  fold : 

Sometimes  I  dream  that  one  by  one 
The  brown  mice  o'er  my  pillow  run. 


HELEX. 

Helen  is  aged  two. 

Look  at  the  tender  blue 
Her  eyes  have  tempted  from  the  heavenliest  patches  in  the  skies! 

Look  at  her  rose-tint  face, 

The  ineffable  fine  grace 
That  in  its  smiles  and  dimples  everywhere  upon  it  lies! 

Had  lady's  hand  e'er  such 

An  inborn  grace  of  touch  ? 
Could  nestling  head  more  gently  woo,  forgiving  or  forgiven  ? 

Did  ever  mouth  put  up, 
,  Or  bud,  so  fresh  a  cup  ? 
Or  little  feet  make  doorway  seem  so  like  the  gate  of  heaven  ? 

Father,  enfold,  I  pray, 

This  little  lamb  alway ! 
My  arm  and  love  will  such  poor  shelter  be  in  storm  or  stress, 

That  O!  may  Thy  great  arm 

Keep  her  dear  feet  from  harm, 
And  Thy  great  love  enwrap  her  in  its  perfect  happiness! 


SARAPl  BROWX  EARLE.  611 


AT  THE  FIRESIDE. 

At  nightfall  by  the  firelight's  cheer 
My  little  Margaret  sits  me  near, 
And  begs  me  tell  of  things  that  were 
When  I  was  little,  just  like  her. 

Ah,  little  lips,  you  touch  the  spring 
Of  sweetest  sad  remembering; 
And  hearth  and  heart  flash  all  aglow 
With  ruddy  tints  of  long  ago! 

I  at  my  father's  fireside  sit, 
Youngest  of  all  who  circle  it, 
And  beg  him  tell  me  what  did  he 
When  he  was  little,  just  like  me. 


wait  jjrown  Jtjjwlq. 


Sarah  Brown  Earle  was  born  Oct.  22, 1835,  in  East  Baldwin,  Me.  She  is  the  daughter 
of  Cyrus  S.  Brown,  of  East  Baldwin,  who  was  grandson  of  the  famous  Capt.  David 
Brown,  of  Concord,  Mass..  whose  company  was  the  first  to  fire  on  the  British  troops  at 
Concord  Bridge.  Her  mother  was  Mary,  daughter  of  Major  Paul  Burnham,  of  Parsons- 
field,  Me.  Aside  from  the  home  schools,  public  and  private,  she  attended  the  academy 
at  Limerick,  and  at  Fryeburg,  Me.,  and  taught  in  district  schools,  between  terms,  for 
most  of  the  years  from  fourteen  to  twenty- four  years  old,  -the  last  five  teaching  con 
stantly.  On  Feb.  7,  1865,  she  was  married  to  Oliver  K.  Earle,  of  Worcester,  Mass.,  in 
which  place  she  still  lives.  Mr.  Earle  died  in  1868.  Since  that  time  the  work  of  chari 
ties  and  schools  has  engaged  her  interest,  having  served  nine  consecutive  years  on  the 
school-board  of  Worcester. 

MAINE  IN  CALIFORNIA. 

[From  a  poem  written  for  the  California  meeting  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Maine.] 

Against  the  adverse  winds  of  fate 
That  over  young  ambitions  blow, 
Strong  scions  from  the  Pine  Tree  State 

Stand  fast  and  grow; 

True  Pilgrim  stock,  though  gnarled  and  old, 
Bears  grafting  in  a  land  of  gold. 

And  while  they  seem  to  toss  about 
As  wild  misfortunes  o'er  them  sweep, 
They  're  making  fibre  tough  and  stout, 

And  rooting  deep, 
Till  History's  unbiased  pen 
Shall  register  Maine's  honored  men. 

They're  ready  with  a  helping  hand, 
And  have  been  since  the  time  of  old. 
When  Plymouth's  struggling  Pilgrim  band, 
Hungered  and  cold, 


612  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

From  Pemaquid  met  friendly  aid 
In  Charity's  sweet  spirit  paid. 

They  started  at  the  first  alarm 

Of  Revolution's  bugle  trill, 

Maine  soldiers  stood  with  lifted  arm 

At  Bunker  Hill. 
They  did  not  loiter  by  the  way, 
And  lose  their  chance  in  that  great  d  ay. 

And  when  our  latest  peril  came, 

The  first  cry  struck  Maine's  listening  ear; 

She  felt  the  quick  heroic  flame 

And  answered  "Here." 
No  word  of  praise  or  lauded  name 
Can  add  new  lustre  to  her  fame. 

But  how  her  truest,  noblest  braves 
Met  that  fierce  conflict,  and  how  well, 
Let  five  and  twenty  thousand  graves 

Of  patriots  tell ! 

"  Maine's  quota's  full,"  is  heard  again, 
When  numbering  the  hosts  of  slain. 

We  like  to  turn  the  pages  back, 
Read  primer  life  in  slow  review, 
Climb  the  old  straight  and  rugged  track, 

Unlike  the  new, 

Which  winds  and  circles  round  our  creeds, 
To  fit  our  mazy,  shifting  needs. 

Our  stern,  cold  winters,  crisp  and  rough, 
Deep-drifted  snowr  and  ice-bound  rills, 
Found  boys  and  girls  with  grit  enough 

To  slide  down  hills, 
And  test  Geometry's  device, 
On  Saco  or  Sebago  ice. 

Or  find  where  maple  orchards  grow, 
Rude  sugar-camps  in  early  spring, 
Where  rustic  pairs  o'er  crusted  snow, 

While  sleigh-bells  ring, — 
Soft  chiming  bells— declare  their  loves 
And  seal  their  fates  in  sugar-groves. 

Hard  times  but  made  the  children  brave 
To  clear  rough  obstacles  away; 


SARAH  BROWN  EARLE.  613 


And  "nothing  venture,  nothing  have," 

Is  true  to  day. 

The  power  to  stem  an  adverse  tide 
Has  made  Maine  men  our  boast  and  pride. 

When  Down-East  urchins  found  their  world 

Half  buried  in  new-fallen  snow, 

In  pathless  hills  and  valleys  whirled, 

And  miles  to  go, 

The  thought  of  staying  home  from  school 
Was  far  too  much  against  the  rule. 

Ox-teams  and  wood-sleds  breaking  way 
Bore  precious  loads  of  eager  youth ; 
Faith,  pluck  and  shovels  won  the  day 

In  search  of  truth. 
A  rosy,  hooded,  mittened  band 
Went  forth,  warm-wrapped  by  mother's  hand. 

It  ivas  so  in  the  long  ago; 

I  hope  the  custom  lingers  yet, 

A  privilege  in  worth  will  grow 

When  hard  to  get; 
A  day  at  school  was  worth  the  while 
Of  shoveling  drifts  a  good  long  mile. 

Before  a  blazing  fire  of  oak 

Our  sides  in  turn  its  warmth  would  feel, 

While  Latin  verbs  and  Greek  roots  woke 

Our  classic  zeal. 

And  so  the  boys- sought  Bowdoin's  shade, 
The  girls  true  Yankee  school-ma'ams  made. 

School-ma'ams  in  Maine!  the  name  implies 

A  brave,  self-educating  band, 

In  training  stern  for  mothers  wise, 

In  this  new  land; 

When  our  boys  came  new  homes  to  find, 
They  did  not  leave  their  girls  behind. 

They  bear  their  full  and  equal  share 

In  building  homes  and  church  and  school, 

Where  woman's  counsel,  love  and  care 

May  help  to  rule, 
And  on  the  rocking  ship  of  state 
Become  the  pilot's  trusted  mate. 


614  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


If  Maine  is  to  her  motto  true, 
And,  doing  all  things,  bravely  leads, 
With  eagle  vision  should  she  view 

Her  highest  needs, 
Nor  give  her  soaring  pinions  rest 
Till  she  has  found  and  won  the  best,- 

Till  better  than  a  mine  of  gold, 
Or  pinnacles  of  tottering  fame, 
Shall  prove  the  title  she  shall  hold 

In  her  fair  name ; 
Unsullied  honor  shall  she  gain 
And  wear  her  crest  without  a  stain. 


urn  $.  @nmmings. 


This  author  is  a  native  of  Bowdoiiiham,  and  resides  at  Brunswick.  She  was  born  in 
1838,  and  has  followed  literature  as  a  profession,  having  contributed  to  more  than  thirty 
different  papers  and  magazines.  Has  also  published  two  books.  She  is  least  known  over 
her  real  name,  having  nearly  always  written  over  a  nom  de  plume. 


SUMMER-TIME. 

Times  and  seasons  onward  glide, 
Like  a  swiftly  rolling  tide, 
Till  the  past  to  us  doth  seem 
Like  a  vision  or  a  dream; 
And  the  future's  tidal  waves 
May  roll  over  wrecks  and  graves; 
But  oh,  let  no  rude  alarms 
Mar  the  summer  evening  charms. 

Soft  the  air — the  evening  star 
Shines  beyond  the  hills  afar. 
Through  the  twilight's  purple  gloom 
Steals  a  subtle,  sweet  perfume, 
As  if  fairies,  all  unseen, 
Swing  their  censers  o'er  the  green. 
And  the  fire-flies — giddy  things ! — 
With  their  lanterns  'neath  their  wings, 
Search  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
For  the  hidden  elfin-bowers. 


MA RY  J   C UM MING S ,  615 


Overhead  the  quivering  leaves 
Throb  responsive  to  the  breeze. 
Mid  the  flags  a  sound  is  made 
Like  the  rustle  of  brocade. 
Dusky  shadows  creep  and  cling, 
Like  a  sombre,  brooding  wing. 

In  the  upper  starry  world 

Soft  cloud-banners  are  unfurled, 

Where,  like  flags  of  truce,  they  fly 

From  the  ramparts  of  the  sky. 

Through  the  dusk  the  night  has  made 

Flits  a  bit  of  darker  shade, 

Where  the  bats,  the  mongrel  things, 

Fan  the  air  with  velvet  wings; 

In  a  wild  erratic  flight — 

Pigmy  vampires  of  the  night. 

In  the  musky,  slumbrous  air, 
Spirits  whisper  everywhere. 
When  my  soul  for  lost  love  cries, 
There  are  near  responsive  sighs; 
O'er  my  brow  and  through  my  hair 
Soft  hands  wander  light  as  air, 
And  I  thrill  with  joy  divine 
When  their  arms  around  me  twine. 

Hush,  my  heart!  be  still  each  sound 
For  I  stand  on  holy  ground. 
Hush ! — kneel  softly  on  the  sod, 
These  are  messages  of  God. 


'  GLAMOUR. 
-You  think  them  happy;  you  do,  my  sweet, 

With  a  bounding  pulse  and  free  heart-beat. 
You,  feeling  the  thorns  sting  your  aching  brow, 

Are  jealously  viewing  their  pleasure  now. 
O  raise  your  eyes  as  they  stand  in  place, 

With  flashing  diamonds  and  costly  lace; 
Then  down,  look  down  on  the  marble  floor — 

What  see  you  !     "  Their  dancing  feet" — No  more  ? 

You  think,  as  you  watch  them  circle  past. 
Of  your  few  gay  years — too  bright  to  last; 

And  your  willing  feet,  with  a  faith  sublime, 

Brought  your  offering — where  ? — To  an  empty  shrine. 


616  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

How  all  your  loving  and  holy  trust 

Found  a  broken  urn  nnd  a  wreath  of  dust. 
O  raise  your  eyes  as  they  stand  in  place, 

With  their  diamonds  flashing  and  costly  lace, 
Then  down— look  down  on  the  marble  floor— 

What  see  you  ?     "  Their  dancing  feet"—  No  more  ? 

Your  brain  is  reeling,  your  heart  is  torn, 

By  the  heavy  cross  that  your  soul  has  borne. 
You  have  borne  it  well,  with  a  meek,  brave  grace- 
Do  you  wish  to  change  and  take  their  place  ? 
Your  eyes  are  blinded,  they  are,  my  sweet, 

As  you  watch  their  buoyant  and  circling  feet; 
There  are  hearts  and  hopas  asi  I  dreim-s  all  bright, 

Crushed  down,  crushed  dead  'neath  their  heels  to-night. 
You  watch  the  graceful  rise  and  fall  of  the  chief  musician's  arm, 

And  your  weary  feet  in  spite  of  will  yield  to  the  powerful  charm; 
But  you  do  not  think  as  you  list  the  strains  in  their  jubilant  ebb  and  flow, 

That  he  stabs  his  heart  with  every  stroke  of  that  bold,  triumphant  bow. 
Look  down,  look  down,  there  are  hopes  all  bright 

Crushed  there;  crushed  dead  'neath  their  heels  to-night. 


Miss  Julia  H.  May,  the  daughter  of  Rev.  William  May,  a  niece  of  Judge  May  of  Lew- 
iston,  was  born  in  Strong,  Me.,  and  educated  at  Mt.  Holyoke  Seminary,  where  she  gradu 
ated  in  1856.  She  has  been  a  teacher  and  literary  worker  ever  since,  and  spent  several 
years  teaching  in  the  South.  For  the  last  twenty  years  she  has  heen  at  the  head  of  a 
private  school  in  Strong,  Franklin  County,  called  the  "  May  School,"  her  sister,  Miss  S.  R. 
May,  being  an  associate.  The  subject  of  our  sketch  has  written  considerably,  especially  the 
last  six  years,  for  leading  religious  and  literary  journals,  and  her  sister,  the  associate 
teacher,  has  contributed  prose  articles  to  the  Sunday  School  Times,  Congregationalist, 
and  many  other  religious  papers;  also  stories  for  the  children.  Some  of  Miss  May's 
poems  have  been  widely  copied. 


SCHOOL-TIME. 


The  sunshiny  day  is  beginning, 

And  the  school-room  is  full  of  its  light; 
At  my  desk  I  'm  sitting  and  spinning 

The  thought  I  was  spinning  last  night. 
Through  the  door  comes  the  scent  of  the  morning, 

And  the  song  of  the  robin  steals  in, 
While  the  clock  in  the  corner  gives  warning 

It  is  time  for  the  school  to  begin. 


./  ULIA   HA  TiRIS  MA  Y.  61 7 

They  are  coming,  my  lads  and  my  lasses, 

The  door-yard  is  full  of  their  noise, 
Their  feet  wet  with  dew  from  fresh  grasses, 

And  the  girls  just  as  glad  as  the  boys. 
They  are  brimming  with  innocent  laughter, 

They  are  blushing  like  blossoms  of  spring; 
Will  the  fruit  of  their  distant  hereafter 

Be  as  sweet  as  the  blossoming  ? 

In  reverent  silence  they're  sitting, 

Grave  Bertie  and  frolicsome  Lee; 
We  are  reading  the  verses  so  fitting, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me." 
Our  heads  on  our  hands  we  are  bowing, 

We  are  speaking  the  time-hallowed  prayer, 
And  the  Father  in  heaven  is  knowing 

Whether  the  spirit  is  there. 

We  are  singing  the  airs  of  the  May-time, 

The  children  are  singing,  and  I 
Am  listening  to  songs  of  the  play-time, 

And  the  songs  of  the  by  and  by. 
Their  voices  are  ringing  with  pleasure, 

Their  hands  and  their  feet  beating  time, 
And  my  heart  is  made  glad  with  their  measure, 

As  my  soul  to  their  joy  makes  a  rhyme. 

We  are  opening  our  books  and  our  papers, 

We  are  ready  to  read  or  recite ; 
The  boys  have  forgotten  the  capers 

That  troubled  me  so  yester-night. 
I  am  listening,  and  looking,  and  listening, 

And  spinning  my  thread,  as  I  look, 
And  the  tear  in  my  eyelid  is  glistening, 

And  hiding  the  words  of  my  book. 

Ah !  the  smile  to  my  eyelid  is  creeping, 

And  driving  the  tears  to  their  bed ; 
And  deep  in  my  heart  I  am  keeping 

The  thoughts  that  would  come  to  my  head. 
And  unto  myself  I  am  saying, 

As  my  children  so  funnily  spell. 
I  would  that  life's  school  were  beginning, 

And  I  could  commence  it  well. 

But  since  not  a  bit  I  can  alter, 
Of  the  web  that  I  once  have  spun, 


618  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


I  would  guide  the  fingers  that  falter, 

Because  they  have  j  ust  begun ; 
And  I  hope  that  the  Master  Workman, 

When  my  broken  threads  he  sees, 
Will  mend  them,  if  they're  twisted  in, 

With  the  better  threads  of  these. 

The  sunshiny  day  is  beginning, 

And  the  school-room  is  full  of  its  light; 
At  my  desk  I  am  sitting  and  spinning, 

But  not  as  I  spun  yester-night. 
Through  the  door  come  the  scent  of  the  dawning, 

And  the  oriole's  song  to  the  sun, 
But  I  'm  spinning  a  new  thread  this  morning, 

Like  the  one  that  the  children  have  spun. 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

Sweet  valley  of  my  birth ! 

Thy  green  hills  heavenward  rise; 
Where  clouds  come  whispering  to  the  earth 

The  secrets  of  the  skies. 

The  silver  Sandy  winds 

Around  thy  mountain's  feet, 
The  brooks  and  rills  together  binds, 

And  makes  the  meadows  sweet. 

Mount  Abram  cools  thy  head ; 

Old  Blue  makes  warm  thy  breast; 
A  hundred  hills  unturreted 

Keep  watch  from  east  to  west. 

Within  thy  clasping  arms, 

Close  clinging  to  thy  side, 
White  villages  and  fertile  farms 

Safely  and  warmly  hide. 

Over  thy  nightly  sleep 

The  same,  soft  starlight  plays 
That  loving  watch  was  wont  to  keep 

In  unforgotten  days. 

Pressed  to  thy  beating  heart 

A  happy  village  clings, 
Just  where  Mount  Day's  dark  shadows  start, 

Sheltered  beneath  its  wings. 


ELIZA  LELAND  ADAMS  CROSBY. 


That  village  holds  a  nest 

Where  tuneful  memory  sings 
The  song  I  love  to  hear  the  hest 

Of  all  earth's  pleasant  things, 

Hush !  I  can  hear  its  trill; 

It  fills  the  valley  fair, 
From  north  to  south,  from  stream  to  hill, 

Around  and  everywhere. 

Sweet  valley  of  my  birth ! 

The  skies  thy  hilltops  meet; 
And  thought  sent  daily  o'er  the  earth 

At  nightfall  seeks  thy  feet. 


Mr?.  Eliza  L.  A.  Crosby  is  a  native  of  Bucksport,  but  has  lived  many  years  in  Bangor 
She  has  written,  at  various  times,  very  acceptably  for  several  publications. 


LET  US  RUN  WITH  PATIENCE. 

The  heart  is  fixed  and  fixed  the  eye, 
And  I  am  girded  for  the  race. 

The  Lord  is  strong— and  I  rely 
On  His  assisting  grace. 

Race  for  the  swift!  it  must  be  run, 

A  prize  laid  up!  it  must  be  won. 

And  I  have  tarried  longer,  now, 
Pleased  with  the  scenes  of  time, 

Than  fitteth  those  who  hope  to  go 
To  heaven,  that  holy  clime; 

Who  hope  to  gather  fruit  that  grows 

Where  the  immortal  river  ilows. 

The  atmosphere  of  earth — O  how 

It  hath  bedimmed  the  eye, 
And  quenched  the  spirit's  fervid  glow, 

And  stayed  the  purpose  high. 
And  how  these  feet  have  gone  astray 
That  should  have  walked  the  narrow  way. 

But  now,  no  more — for  I  have  caught, 
O  God,  a  glimpse  of  Thee, 


620  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And,  all  unworthy  though  the  thought 

Of  Thy  perfection  be, 
Yet,  'tis  of  God,  and  earth  no  more 
Can  have  the  heart  it  held  before. 

Race  for  the  swift !  I  must  away 

With  footstep  firm  and  free. 
Ye  pleasures  that  invite  my  stay 

And  cares  are  naught  to  me, 
For,  lo !  it  gleameth  on  my  eye, 
The  glory  of  that  upper  sky. 

"  A  prize  laid  up,"  said  he  who  fought 

That  holy  fight  of  old; 
Laid  up  in  heaven  for  me,  yet  not 

For  me  alone  that  crown  of  gold, 
But  all  who  wait  till  Thou  appear 
Saviour,  the  diadem  shall  wear. 

Patiently  wait !  so  help  Thou  me, 

Thou  High  and  Holy  One, 
That,  dim  although  the  vision  be, 

The  race  I  still  may  run; 
This  eye  thus  lifted  to  the  skies, 
This  heart,  thus  burning  for  the  prize. 


ndrew  jjj<td$wat[th. 


Llewellyn  A.  Wads  worth  was  born  in  Hiram,  Me.,  Nov.  13,  1838,  on  a  farm  some  four 
miles  from  any  village  or  educational  advantages,  other  than  the  common  school  of  some 
three  months  in  a  year.  This,  with  some  three  terms  of  High  School  at  Keazar  Falls, 
comprised  his  privileges.  He  remained  on  the  farm  most  of  the  time  till  his  thirtieth 
year  teaching  some  in  the  district  schools,  and  serving  eight  years  as  Supervisor  of 
Schools,  and  S.  S.  Committee  He  was  married  Aug.  12,  18G8,  to  Miss  Annette  demons, 
who  with  one  son,  comprises  his  family.  His  father,  Col.  Charles  Wadsworth,  was  a 
grandson  of  Gen.  Peleg  Wadsworth,  of  Revolutionary  fame,  hence  a  cousin  to  the  poet, 
U  W.  Longfellow.  He  is  also  a  descendant  of  five  of  the  Pilgrims,  who  landed  from  the 
Mayflower  at  Plymouth  Rock.  His  mother,  Mrs.  Sarah  H.  Wadsworth,  was  a  lady  of 
tender  affections  and  mild  and  gentle  nature.  He  has  been  engaged  some  years  in  writ 
ing  a  history  of  his  native  town.  He  has  lived  for  sixteen  years  on  a  highland  farm  over 
looking  the  Saco  Valley  and  Lovell's  Pond,  and  affording  a  grand  view  of  the  White 
Mountain  region.  He  has  contributed  prose  or  poems  to  some  thirty  papers  of  Maine, 
New  Hampshire  and  Massachusetts,  and  served  two  years  as  associate  editor  of  the  Oxford 
County  liecord.  He  was  Representative  from  Hiram  in  the  Legislature  of  1879.  and  has 
been  prominently  named  for  the  Senate.  He  has  served  as  Justice  of  the  Peace  and  Trial 
Justice  some  seventeen  years,  Notary  Public  thirteen  years.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Odd 
Fellows,  the  Grange,  tbe  Free  Masons,  and  the  Congregational  Church.  His  life  has  been 
one  of  affliction,  hence  the  patlios  that  permeates  his  writings,  and  the  spirit  of  human 
ity  that  results  in  self-sacrificing  efforts  for  the  oppressed,  the  stricken,  and  the  suffer 
ing  in  his  vicinity;  believing  that  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  Great  Mystery  these  deeds 
are  treasured,  and  a  voice  will  one  day  be  heard  softer  than  the  wind-harp's  JEolian 
cadence,  and  sweeter  than  the  angel's  song,  saying:  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  these  things  to 
these  my  homeless,  friendless  and  forsaken  ones,  ye  did  them  unto  Me." 


LLEWELLYN  ANDREW  WAVSWORTH.  621 


THE  TEEbS  THAT  IS  FADED  AND  G*RAY. 

To-night,  as  I  turn  to  the  treasures  of  yore, 

Collected  with  many  a  care. 
My  gaze  turns  to  one,  and  returns  o'er  and  o'er, 

'Tis  a  lock  of  my  fond  mother's  hair. 
This  boon  that  I  cherish  is  faded  and  gray, 

And  long,  long  ago  011  the  page, 
My  dear  mother  penciled  her  name  where  it  lay, 

When  her  fingers  were  trembling  with  age. 
I  have  names  of  the  poet,  the  soldier,  the  sage, 

And  treasures  from  far  o'er  the  sea, 
But  the  name  of  my  mother,  so  tremulous  with  age, 

Is  the  one  that  is  dearest  to  me. 
How  oft,  O  how  oft,  my  heart  fondly  yearns 

For  the  scenes  of  my  boyhood's  play, 
And  often  in  sadness  it  tenderly  turns 

To  the  tress  that  is  faded  and  gray. 
As  sadly  I  turn  from  the  time-worn  page 

To  the  throng  that  is  festive  and  gay, 
There's  a  tear  on  the  name  that  is  tremulous  with  age, 

And  the  tress  that  is  faded  and  gray. 


COMING  HOME. 
Mother,  I'm  coming  home, 

I'm  weary  of  my  wandering  here  alone; 
Tlife  days  allotted  for  my  feet  to  roam, 

Have  almost  flown,— 
I'm  coming  home. 

Out  in  the  falling  snow, 

Or  in  the  pitiless  and  chilling  rain, 
Lonely  and  wearily  I  onward  go, 

For  worldly  gain, — 
Weary  and  slow. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  of  home, 

And  stood  beside  the  crystal  mountain  stream 
And  gazed  upon  its  music-making  foam,— 

Stood  in  my  dream, 
Where  once  I  roamed. 

The  northern  breeze  sweeps  by, 

It  comes  from  where  the  May-flower  blooms, 
And  through  the  pine-trees  towering  high 

With  bending  plumes, 
It  softly  sighs. 

41* 


622  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Mother,  when  day  is  done, 

And  the  evening  fire  burns  cheerfully, 
Dost  thou  think  then  of  thy  long-absent  one, — 

Dost  think  of  me — 
Thy  wandering  son  ? 

Thy  crown  of  silver  hair, 

The  tender  glance  of  thy  blue,  fading  eye, 
Tell  that  thy  weary  soul  will  soon  repair 

To  climes  on  high.— 
We'll  all  meet  there. 

Thy  kiss  is  on  my  brow, 

Th»y  fingers  roving  through  my  flaxen  hair, 
As  when  long,  long  ago, 

I  used  to  bow  to  s.iy  my  prayer;— 
1  say  it  now. 

My  lamp  burns  dim  and  slow, 

My  thoughts  are  turning  for  a  homeward  flight; 
Into  the  land  of  pleasant  dreams  I  go ; 

Mother,  good-night, — 
My  lids  droop  low. 


jjl<md  jjpear. 


David  Dana  Spear  was  born  in  North  Yarmouth,  County  of  Cumberland,  May  26,  1839. 
He  was  the  only  son  of  William  and  Emily  ( Bridge)  Spear.  His  early  education  was  received 
at  the  common  schools  of  North  Yarmouth,  and  the  select  schools  taught  at  Cumberland 
Centre.  He  took  a  course  of  study  at  the  North  Yarmouth  Academy  located  at  Yar 
mouth 'Me.  —was  graduated  from  this  school  in  1860.  Was  admitted  to  Waterville  Col 
lege  (now  Colby  University)  in  the  class  of  '64.  He  remained  but  one  year,  but  was 
engao-ed  in  teaching  after  this.  He  then  studied  at  Concord  School  of  Theology  for  one 
year  and  preached  for  two  years  at  the  Methodist  churches  in  Wells  and  Cape  Eliza 
beth  In  1864  he  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  spending  two  years  in  the  Maine 
Medical  School,  at  Brunswick,  under  the  control  of  Bowdoin  College.  The  last  year  of 
medical  study  was  pursued  at  the  Berkshire  Medical  College,  in  Pittsfield,  Mass.  His 
first  place  of  medibal  practice  was  Kennebunk.  Since  1873  he  has  practiced  medicine 
in  Freeport.  He  received  his  medical  degree,  in  1867.  The  degree  of  A.  M.  was 
conferred  upon  him  by  Colby  University  in  1886.  His  earliest  poems  were  written  while 
a  student  at  North  Yarmouth  Academy— mostly  for  personal  amusement;  quite  a  number 
of  these  were  printed  under  a  nom  deplume.  Later,  he  was  a  contributor  to  the  Guide 
to  and  Beauty  of  Holiness,  a  magazine  published  in  New  York.  He  has  also^contribu- 
ted  occasional  pieces  for  the  Christian  Mirror  and  for  the  Zion's  Herald. 

MY  SUREST  STAY  IS  GOD. 
When  hope  is  bright  and  all  is  fair, 
No  cloud  within  surrounding  air; 
When  gentle  gales  propitious  blow 
Rich  blessings  to  me  as  I  go, 
My  surest  stay  is  God. 


DA  VID  D A NA  SP EAR. 


When  all  within  is  calm  and  still 
And  I  submissive  to  His  will, 
Finding  in  faith  a  "  perfect  peace," 
A  rest  from  sin, — a  full  release, 
My  surest  stay  is  God. 

When  fortune  smiles  and  friends  are  true, 
My  pathway  strewn  with  roses,  too ; 
When  all  around  in  love  combine 
To  make  a  pleasant  pathway  mine, 
My  surest  stay  is  God. 

If  sorrows  come  and  darkly  roll 
Dread,  gloomy  doubts  upon  my  soul ; 
While  tempests  fierce  rage  in  the  skies, 
And  hopes  and  fears  alternate  rise, 
My  surest  stay  is  God. 

If  friends  forsake  and  me  disown, 
And  sore  afflictions  bow  me  down, 
With  aching  heart  I  seek  to  find 
One  place  to  rest  my  troubled  mind, — 
My  surest  stay  is  God. 

When  Jordan's  waves  dark  flow  beneath 
And  bear  me  to  the  gates  of  death ; 
When  earthly  helps  and  comforts  flee, 
And  I  no  other  rest  can  see, 
My  only  stay  is  God. 


TRUE  BEAUTY. 

True  beauty,  it  can  n-ver  die, 
Though  perish  all  beneath  the  sky; 
Or,  wrapped  in  fire,  this  lower  world 
Into  its  foretold  ruin  hurled, 
Fades  it ?     From  mortal  sight  it  may: 
But  lives  in  God's  eternal  day. 

And  wilt  thou  kindly,  with  me,  trace 
That  beauty  time  can  ne'er  efface, 
And  find  in  Hope's  approving  eye, 
Wherein  its  virtues  purely  lie  ? 
Then  shalt  thou  know  what  laurels  fair 
On  earth  to  make  thine  earnest  care. 


624  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Though  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  years 
Amid  the  storm  which  here  appears, 
That  form  is  beautiful  and  bright 
Which  iirmly  stands  in  God's  own  might; 
Which  nobly  dares  to  do  and  bear, 
Beneath  the  Cross  its  burden  share. 

Though  wrinkled  deep  with  furrows  near; 
Though  clouded  o'er  with  earthly  fear; 
Though  smiles  be  few  and  far  between, 
That  rest  upon  the  troubled  mien, 
That  face  has  truest  beauty  there 
Which  Jesus  calms  by  answered  prayer. 

If  hopes  of  heaven  be  bright  within, 

A  conscious  purity  from  sin    . 

'Mid  the  dreariest  path  of  life, 

Though  pressed  with  care  and  grief  and  strife, 

Sublimely  beautiful,  that  heart 

Which  knows  and  loves  the  better  part. 

This  beauty  can  be  had  by  all 
Who  listen  to  the  Saviour's  call. 
Nor  this  alone:  true  peace  they  find; 
A  calm,  serene,  benignant  mind; 
When  changing  scenes  of  life  are  o'er, 
A  crown  to  wear  for  evermore. 


jJMdbwtj  j§0lbra0k. 

Mrs.  Holbrook,  wife  of  Rev.  C.  F.  Holbrook.  late  pastor  of  the  Baptist  Church  at  New 
port,  N.  II.,  is  a  native  of  Maine,  and  a  daughter  of  the  late  Benjamin  B.  Bradbury,  of 
Bangor.  At  the  early  age  of  fifteen  years  she  completed  the  course  of  study  in  the  Ban- 
gor  High  School,  after  which  she  was  a  pupil  in  Mt.  Holyoke  and  Charlestown  Female 
Seminaries,  and  was  graduated  from  the  latter.  As  a  pupil,  Mrs.  Holbrook  was  diligent 
and  brilliant,  and  as  a  teacher  of  young  ladies  she  was  efficient  and  accomplished.  She 
was  married  to  Mr.  Holbrook  in  1863,  and  since  that  event,  though  she  has  shown  great 
devotion  to  parish  work  and  to  family  duties,  has  occasionally  found  time  to  contribute 
articles  to  St.  Nicholas,  the  Youth's  Companion,  and  other  juvenile  and  religious  peri 
odicals.  Her  literary  efforts  are  always  much  appreciated  by  friends  and  publishers. 


"IT  IS  BEAUTIFUL  THERE." 
The  gates  were  unclosing,  and  glories  elysian 

With  strange  lustre  shone  through  earth's  shadowy  night; 
A  fair  maiden  gazed  on  the  pure,  heavenly  vision, 

Till  her  pillow  of  stone  bore  a  Bethel  of  light. 

The  faces,  lost  faces,  all  radiant  with  glory, 
Like  stars  that  the  darkness  of  night  but  reveals, 

One  moment  shone  downward,  to  tell  the  sweet  story 
Of  satisfied  hope  our  earth-mist  conceals ! 


OUR  AN  RENSSELAER  HALL.  625 


O  thin,  love-pierced  veil!    How  quick  the  transition 
Through  clear,  shining  waves  of  light,  buoyant  air, 

By  a  swift  angel  borne,  whose  merciful  mission 
His  pale  brow  surrounds  with  an  aureole  fair! 

The  lily-white  bell  of  the  sweet  asphodel, 
He  bears  like  a  signet  of  love  on  his  breast2 

And  smiles,  as  smiles  only  the  fair  Israfel, 
Who  brings  the  evangel  of  peace  and  of  rest. 

The  maiden  looked  upward,  and  saw  him  draw  near, — 
The  lily  bells  paled  in  his  still,  icy  breath; 

He  wooed  her  with  smiles,  and,  with  never  a  fear, 
She  plighted  her  troth  to  the  bridegroom,  Death. 

"I  think  I  will  go;  it  is  beautiful  there," — 
And  a  smile  of  strange  beauty  transfigured  her  face; 

We  called  her  by  name,  but  the  maiden  so  fair, 
In  death's  snowy  bridal,  with  still,  silent  grace, 

Gave  back  no  response;  and  the  vision  so  brief, 
Had  faded  from  out  the  dark,  vacant  room ! 

The  maiden,  too,  vanished ;  and  grief,  sable  grief, 
With  footsteps  all  noiseless,  approached  in  the  gloom.- 

Be  still,  throbbing  heart,  and  cease  thy  repining ! 

Breathe  out  thy  vain  sighs  in  a  child's  trustful  prayer, 
Beyond  the  thin  veil  God's  love  still  divining, 

And  know,  surely  know,  "it  is  beautiful  there." 


Orran  R.  Hall  was  born  in  Naples,  Me.,  in  1839.  He  fitted  for  college  at  Bridgton  Acad 
emy,  but  a  severe  attack  of  typhoid  fever  delayed  his  entrance  upon  a  collegiate  course 
for  several  years.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College  in  1859,  but  ill  health  compelled  him  to 
abandon  his  studies  in  his  Junior  year.  The  lingering  effects  of  his  former  illness  and 
excessive  use  of  his  eyes  in  study  and  miscellaneous  reading,  resulted  in  an  attack  of  iri 
tis,  which  deprived  him  of  his  eyesight  for  five  or  six  years.  During  those  years  of 
intense  physical  suffering  and  mental  depression,  he  devoted  considerable  attention  to 
literary  compositions,  many  of  which  appeared  in  the  leading  periodicals  of  the  day.  He 
also  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  with  the  aid  of  a  reader,  and  his  eyes  becomin^ 
improved,  he  graduated  from  the  Bowdoin  Medical  School  in  1867.  He  commenced  prac*- 
tice  the  same  year  in  Bucklield,  Me.,  where  he  remained  about  five  years.  He  then  prac 
ticed  several  years  in  Massachusetts,  but  the  condition  of  his  health  rendering  a  change 
of  location  necessary,  he  returned  to  Maine,  where  he  followed  his  profession  until  he 
was  prostrated  by  an  attack  of  pneumonia  in  1SS2.  since  which  time  he  has  not  been  in 
active  practice.  In  1882  he  entered  on  a  position  in  one  of  the  Government  Departments 
in  Washington,  but  was  too  ill  to  remain.  In  1887  he  made  a  sea  voyage  to  Madeira  and 
the  Azores,  from  which  he  returned  greatly  restored  in  health.  Durin^  most  of  the 
years  of  his  medical  life  he  has  held  the  appointment  of  Examining  Surgeon  for  Invalid 
Pensions.  Doctor  Hall  is  a  man  of  scholarly  tastes  and  acute  literary  perceptions. 

ASSOCIATION. 

To-day  I  chanced  into  the  fields  and  woods 
To  walk,  careworn,  in  one  of  those  sad  moods 


626  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

That  early  autumn  always  gives  us  when 

We  seek  the  summer  sounds  and  sights  in  vain. 

The  blossoms  of  the  spring  were  grown  to  fruit; 
The  gentle  voices  of  the  spring  were  mute ; 
When  late  the  robin  and  the  blue-bird  sang 
Their  matins,  and  the  cricket's  chirrups  rang, 
The  squirrel,  chattering,  to  his  nest  again 
Fled  with  his  thieving  hands  all  berry-stained; 
The  rooks,  out  of  the  hemlocks  tall,  complained 
The  year  was  waxing  late,  or  in  long  train, 
With  clamor  hoarse,  and  boding  croak,  again 
Held  counsel  when  to  fly  the  coming  frost, 
The  air  was  still,  and  not  a  sound  was  lost. 

The  cart  that  creaked  beneath  its  weight  of  grain* 
The  wagon  rattling  down  the  rocky  lane ; 
The  rhymeless  song  the  barefoot  school-boy  sang 
With  such  a  zest  as  only  school-boy  can; 
The  gurgle  of  a  brook  among  the  rocks ; 
The  patient  bleating  of  the  grazing  flocks; 
The  quiet  rustle  of  the  ripened  sheaves 
With  the  faint  breath  that  stirred  the  fading  leaves; 
Art,  blending  into  mellow  music,  made, 
With  every  sound,  a  plaintive  voice  that  said 
Summer  is  gone.     The  fields  that  late  were  green, 
Were  grown  to  russet  brown;  nor  were  there  seenr 
Of  all  the  soft-eyed  darlings  of  the  spring, 
A  single  flower.     When  late  were  blossoming 
The  lilacs,  and  the  rose  thrilled  with  its  own 
Beauty,  now  the  frost  flower  bloomed  alone; 
The  cardinal  flaunted  in  the  violet's  place, 
And  by  the  way-side  shone  the  rustic  face 
Of  the  gay  golden-rod.     The  very  light 
Was  unlike  that  of  summer.     Now  a  bright, 
Gold-tinted  haze  on  all  the  hill-slope  lay, 
Or  curling  into  softest  mist,  the  way 
The  winding  brook  through  grassy  meadows  made, 
Or  drooping  alders,  to  the  eye  displayed. 

All  things  around  me,  every  sound  and  sight, 
Seemed  sadly  to  remind  me  that  the  bright 
Grace  of  summer-time  we  loved  had  passed 
Into  the  sombre  autumn,  and  at  last 
Winter  would  spread  his  white  shroud  over  all. 
u  And  thus,"  in  bitterness,  I  said,  "  the  fall 
Of  life  to  me,  anon,  will  usher  in 
The  frosts  of  death.     Already  has  the  spring 


ORRAN  RENSSELAER  HALL.  6?7 

Lapsed  into  early  summer,  and  full  soon 
The  waking  dream  of  life,  like  a  sweet  tune 
That  dies  e'en  while  we  thrill  with  it,  will  break." 

Thus  did  I,  feeling  old  and  wilful,  take 
Its  saddest  lesson  only  from  the  scene, 
Nor  heed  that  it  taught  others;  till,  as  green 
Isles  fade  amid  the  waters  from  the  sight 
Of  streaming  eyes  that  loved  them,  did  the  bright 
Isles  of  my  youth  seem  fading  from  the  shore 
Into  the  years,  to  be  beheld  no  more. 

And  as  I  plucked  the  flowers  that  grew  around, 
In  listless  mood,  and  flung  them  to  the  ground, 
The  plainest  of  them  all  in  blossoming, 
Its  name  I  never  know,  a  humble  thing, 
I  chanced  to  crush,  and  breathe  its  odor;  when 
Such  flood  of  recollection  smote  my  brain; 
Such  gentle  memories  of  days  long  gone; 
Of  sunny  hearts  the  dust  now  lies  upon ; 
Of  old-time  frolics  when  the  heart  was  young; 
Forgotten  melodies  in  childhood  sung ; 
Of  boyish  dreams,  loves,  fancies,  that  had  slept 
For  many  a  year,  all  thronging,  o'er  me  swept, 
And  moved  such  tender  sadness  in  my  heart, 
That  was  not  pain  but  happiness  in  part; — 
A  blending  of  such  sorrow  and  sweet  joy, 
That  it  was  spring  again,  and  I  a  boy. 

As  I  remembered  where  was  wont  to  grow 
That  flower,  in  haunts  of  childhood  long  ago, 
All  the  old  time  came  back.     Again  I  heard 
The  happy  twitter  of  the  morning  bird; 
The  droning  of  the  bees  amid  the  plumes 
Of  the  sweet  breathing  mowing  fields;  the  tunes          » 
The  brook  sang,  as  it  turned  my  little  mill; 
What  the  wind  whispered  in  the  eaves;  the  shrill, 
Sharp  whirring  that  the  lazy  "  quakers"  made 
As  I  walked  listlessly  to  school,  and  said 
I  wish  I  were  a  "quaker,"  too;  the  voice 
Of  sleepy  urchin  reading   not  from  choice. 

I  saw  the  old  brown  school-house  on  the  hill. 
The  names  I  cut  on  its  hacked  benches  still ; 
The  fat,  black  letters  in  the  book  I  read, 
That  winked,  and  looked  so  jolly  when  I  said 
Their  names ;  the  apple-blooms  that  spread  the  ways 
With  snow;  the  playmates  of  my  school-boy  days, 
Now  into  women  grown,  and  bearded  men, 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


With  hearts  not  half  so  good,  or  blithe  as  then; 
The  meeting  of  the  butterflies,  the  birds ; 
The  shimmer  of  the  leaves  in  June;  the  words 
Of  brief  hymns  I  used  to  say;  the  smell 
Of  new-mown  hay;  the  feathery  flakes  that  fell 
Of  the  first  snow;  the  shadows  of  the  clouds; 
All  the  dear  memories  of  the  past,  in  crowds, 
As  conjured  up  by  some  magician's  power, 
Came  with  the  odor  of  that  simple  flower. 
And  half  in  tears,  yet  cheerfully,  I  said, 
The  perfume  lingers,  though  the  rose  be  dead; 
And  though  life's  summer  grown  to  autumn  chill, 
The  memories  of  its  spring-time  haunt  it  still. 

EVENING.     TO  ONE  ABSENT. 

The  sun  steals  slowly  down  the  western  sky, 
And  weary  folds  him  in  his  couch  to  rest, 

Laying  his  gold  and  crimson  mantle  by, 

While  Hesper  drops  her  dews  upon  his  breast. 

The  arrow- winged  swallows,  glancing  low, 
Pour  out  their  joy  upoh  the  scented  air; 

And  in  the  grove  the  whip-poor-will  her  slow, 
Sad  wail  takes  up,  and  tells  the  world  her  care. 

The  crickets,  drunken  with  ethereal  dew, 
From  out  their  stealthy  coverts  chirrup  shrill; 

From  the  cool  meadow  far  below  a  few 
Brief  notes  of  song  are  heard,  then  all  is  still. 

When  Echo,  fast  asleep  upon  the  hill, 

Half-wakened,  catches  up  but  half  the  song; 

Kepeats  it  over,  low  and  lower  still, 

As  in  a  dream,  the  soft  notes  to  prolong. 

A  soothing  sound  the  little  streamlet  makes, 
Where,  sliding  o'er  the  mossy  rock,  it  winds: 

Communing  with  itself  as  011  it  takes 
Its  way,  of  sands  and  flower-sown  banks  behind. 

And  now  the  shadows  gather  in  the  leaves, 
And  stealing  from  the  wood,  put  out  the  light. 

Laden  with  sweets,  the  balmy  night  wind  breathes, 
And  darkness  veils  the  dusky  world  from  sight. 

The  fire-flies  flit,  with  twinkling  lamps  alight, 
Through  the  dusk  shadows  flashing  here  and  there; 

As  though  the  stars  were  falling  in  the  night ; 
Like  gems  that  beauty  twines  in  ebon  pair. 


SARAH  J.  D.  STEVENS.  <>29 

Stirred  by  the  idle  zephyr's  breath,  the  leaves 

Rustle  their  timid  whispers  in  the  ear 
Unseen.     The  hill  a  rounded  outline  heaves, 

Of  orchard  trees  against  the  sky  so  near. 

Hushed  now  are  all  the  sounds  of  busy  day ; 

The  din  of  weary  industry  is  done ; 
Heart  vexing  care  and  sorrow  steal  away, 

To  come  again  with  the  returning  sun. 

Sad,  at  this  hour,  and  sweet  it  is  to  dream 

Over  again  the  dreams  we  dreamed  before; 
Listing  your  voice  in  fancy,  till  I  dream 

Old  joys  renewed,  and  you  are  near  once  more. 

Again  I  feel  your  breath  upon  my  cheek; 

Again  I  gaze  unchided  in  your  eyes ; 
Revealing  the  impassioned  words  you  dare  not  speak, 

While  all  the  golden  hour  unheeded  flies. 

Again  we  rear  fine  castles  in  the  air 

Wherein  we  happy  wander,  hand  in  hand ; 
Ourselves  the  solitary  tenants  there, 

Alone  within  the  realms  of  fairy  land. 

Once  more  I  feel  the  pressure  of  your  hand, 

Thrilling  my  pulses  into  quicker  flow: 
Once  more  upon  the  little  bridge  we  stand, 

Watching  the  starlight  in  the  wave  below. 

All  those  bright  days  come  back  to  me  again, 
And  meet  my  heart  at  this  calm  hour  of  night; 

So  does  your  fancied  presence  banish  pain, 
And  bless  my  dreams  until  the  dawning  light. 

Then  speed  the  lagging  hours  through  which  I  wait 

So  long  to  welcome  your  return  to  me; 
And  let  us  trust  the  bliss  that  comes  too  late, 

Delayed,  may  dearer  and  more  lasting  be. 


Mrs.  S.  J.  D.  Stevens  was  born  in  Belfast,  Me.,  July  17,  1839.  Her  parents,  Benjamin 
and  Eliza  Dyer,  soon  removed  to  Troy,  Me.,  where  she  has  since  resided  Previous  to 
her  marriage  to  Augustus  Stevens,  in  1861 ,  she  taught  several  district  schools  Inherited 
scholarly  tastes  and  an  intense  delight  to  wield  the  pen  from  parents  and  ancestors  of 
each,  although  a  natural  diffidence  and  love  of  retirement  have  kept  their  rich  thoughts 
I1]  \  °m  the  world>  Iier  materual  grandfather  was  Hon.  Hezekiah  Chase  of  Amity 
Me.,  whose  widow,  a  beautiful  and  brilliant  woman  at  the  age  of  one  hundred  and  one 
still  retains  an  active  mind,  and  much  personal  beauty.  The  only  grandchilcSen  who 
inherit  the  name  are  Prof.  G.  C.  Chase,  of  Bates  College,  and  Rev.  jfAubury  Chase  of 


630  THE  POETS  OF  MA INE. 


Cheltnsford  Mass.  Mrs.  Stevens  has  three  children— one  a  student  in  Boston  Conserva 
tory  one  in\ew  York  Medical  School,  and  the  youngest  in  Bates  College.  Jhe  educa 
tion  of  her  children  lias  closely  occupied  the  time  and  thought  of  the  mother,  hut  dur- 
iuff  the  last  two  or  three  years  luss  pmu  seme  time  to  theC.  L.  S.  C.  readings  and  writ 
ten  several  poems,  mostly  composed  while  doir.g  the  work  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  the 
farmer'-*  wife  The  Boston  Morning  Mor  is  occasionally  enriched  with  Mrs.  Stevens  t 


contributions. 


DANTE. 


'T  was  a  festival  scene  in  the  city  of  flowers, 

A  bright  May-day  morn  in  the  long,  long  ago, 
When  in  childhood  they  met.     O  gay  were  the  bowers 

In  fair,  sunny  Florence,  where  sweet  waters  flow ! 

To  the  dark  eyes  of  Dante  she  came  as  a  vision; 

So  lovely  and  fair  to  his  fancy,  she  seemed, 
An  angel  of  beauty  from  mansions  Elysian 

Had  watched  o'er  his  slumbers,  and  smiled  when  he  dreamed. 

The  years  glided  by.     A  boy  no  longer— 

A  scholar,  a  poet,  and  honored  his  name, 
His  love  with  the  years  growing  deeper  and  stronger, 

For  Beatrice  he  struggled  for  fortune  and  fame. 

In  his  works  one  could  trace  his  heartfelt  devotion, 
In  his  eyes  read  the  story  of  unconquered  love, 

Of  a  heart  tempest-tossed,  like  the  billows  of  ocean, 
When  storm-clouds  o'ershadow  the  clear  sky  above. 

O  why  was  fate  cruel!  and  why  they  were  parted 

And  Beatrice  another's,  has  never  been  known- 
Why  Dante,  the  gifted,  the  brave  and  true-hearted, 
In  anguish  must  suffer  and  sorrow  alone. 

Except— had  God  given  this  maiden  so  peerless, 

The  beauteous  Beatrice,  to  love  as  his  own, 
The  greatness  of  Dante,  the  noble  and  fearless, 

And  "Divina  Comedia"  had  never  been  known. 

By  stern  fate— cruel  war— the  last  tie  was  riven, 
An  alien  henceforth  he  was  destined  to  roam, 
From  his  own  native  land  our  hero  was  driven 
In  exile  to  die,  far  from  country  and  home. 

But  from  sorrowing  depths  of  his  true  heart's  devotion 
Inspiration  was  born— of  his  nation  the  pride; 

And  the  world  reads  to-day,  with  tearful  emotion, 
How  in  poverty,  loneliness,  sorrow,  he  died. 


MARY  NEWMARCH  PRESCOTT.  6!U 


PICTURED  FACES. 

The  cool,  purple  shadows  of  evening  are  stealing, 
And,  alone  with  the  loved  and  the  lost,  we  are  kneeling, 
While  the  firelight's  soft  glow  is  dimly  revealing 

The  sweet,  pictured  faces,  that  gaze  on  our  tears. 
Their  looks  are  unchanged,  when  the  world  blames  or  praises; 
Why  tell  them  of  hopes  hid  with  them  'neath  the  daisies; 
That  we  wander  alone  through  life's  dreary  mazes, 

With  longing  for  home,  and  eternity's  years  ? 

To  their  voices  on  earth  we  shall  listen  no  more, 
They  will  bid  us  glad  welcome  to  yonder  bright  shore, 
Singing,  "Fear  not  the  tempest  and  dark  billows'  roar; 

Beyond  is  the  calm  and  the  sunlight  of  heaven." 
There  are  hearts  that  are  breathing,  and  waiting  to  bless 
With  kind,  soothing  words  and  loving  caress. 
O  why  from  the  living  all  feeling  repress  ? 

They  alone  can  respond  to  the  sympathy  given. 

Oft  coldness  and  sternness  is  only  the  token 

That  the  world,  false  and  cruel,  a  true  heart  has  broken., 

O  judge  them  not  harshly — let  kind  words  be  spoken, 

The  lonely  to  cheer,  and  the  fallen  to  save. 
To  the  exile  from  home,  on  life's  stormy  billow, 
Send  a  missive  of  love  ere  he  sleeps  'neath  the  willow; 
With  roses — not  thorns — O  strew  his  lone  pillow, 

And  save  not  the  sweetest  to  brighten  his  grave. 


<Hl'<*rB  Mewmnrch  jjrwcott. 


Mary  N.  Prescott,  a  younger  sister  of  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  elsewhere  represented 
In  this  volume,  was  born  in  Calais,  Aug.  2,  1839.  She  is  the  daughter  of  Joseph  N.  and 
Sarah  Jane  Prescott,  Harriet  being  the  oldest  of  the  five  children.  The  mother  was  a 
native  of  Charlotte,  Me.,  sister  to  O.  L.  Bridges,  the  brilliant  attorney.  Mary  was  edu 
cated  partly  in  Pinkerton  Academy,  Derry,  N.  H.,  and  partly  under  her  sister  Harriet's 
tutorage,  and  has  resided  with  her  most  of  the  time  since  the  latter's  marriage,  in  1865. 
Miss  Prescott  is  a  lady  of  quiet  tastes,  is  essentially  a  "  home  body,"  a  dear  lover  of  chil 
dren,  and  very  successful  as  a  juvenile  writer,  an  accomplishment  in  which  really  few 
excel.  Some'of  her  poems,  published  in  the  Atlantic  and  Harper's  Jiazar,  have  also 
won  high  praise  from  mature  readers.  Miss  Prescott  has  spent  a  year  abroad,  a  year  or 
more  at  Washington,  and  occasionally  visits  New  York,  and  the  old  home  in  the  Pine 
Tree  State.  She  is  equally  successful  as  a  writer  of  short  stories  and  editorials,  which 
have  found  acceptation  in  journals  and  magazines  of  the  highest  character.  "Matt's 
Follies,  and  Other  Stories," 'has  appeared  in  book  form,  and  added  to  her  literary  repute. 


THE  BROOK. 

The  little  brooklet  ripples  along, 
Every  bubble  singing  a  song; 
It  tangles  the  sun  in  its  crystal  skein, 
And  it  answers  back  to  the  fretting  rain ; 


632  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Along  its  margin  the  ferns  unfold, 

And  violets  shapen  out  of  the  mold ; 

And  the  flag-flower  leans,  as  if  fain  to  snatch 

A  hint  of  the  brooklet's  musical  catch, 

While  arrow  heads  are  wading  out 

To  watch  the  flashing  of  silver  trout. 

Day  after  day,  and  night  after  night, 

It  seems  to  be  running  away  out  of  sight; 

But  the  way  is  long,  and  the  path  is  rough, 

And  day  and  night  are  not  long  enough. 

Orion  looks  on  its  quivering  stream, 

His  belt  and  buckle  upon  it  gleam, 

And  all  the  stars  that  haunt  the  sky 

Reflect  their  splendor  in  passing  by. 

O  happy  brooklet,  that  bears  along 

The  skimming  swallow's  early  song; 

The  secret  of  each  neighboring  nest. 

Of  lilies  anchored  on  its  breast; 

That  every  day,  and  perhaps  forever, 

Plays  out  of  doors  in  all  sorts  of  weather! 


SONG. 
The  very  stars  will  rise  and  swing 

More  radiant  censers  in  the  air, 
No  shadow  fall  on  anything, 

The  red  rose  paint  itself  more  fair, 
So  brief  the  hours,  divine  their  sum, 
When  Love  is  come,  when  Love  is  come. 

Beauty  will  fail  from  earth  and  sky, 

Fragrance  and  song  will  lose  their  dower, 

The  world  in  dark  eclipse  will  lie,  • 
And  all  things  wither  in  that  hour, 

When  still  the  heart  beats  on  and  on, 

And  Love  is  gone,  and  Love  is  gone. 

WATCHING. 
I  see  the  fishing- boats  put  out, 

And  sail  away ; 
I  watch  them  out  and  in  again, 

Day  after  day. 

Across  the  white  lip  of  the  bur 
The  fog  uprises  like  a  scar, 

And  blots  the  bay. 


MARY  NEWMAECH  PBESCOTT.  633 


I  mark  them  when  the  wind  they  take, 

And  urge  their  night; 
I'm  waiting  when  their  shining  wake 

Creeps  into  sight. 
Across  the  mellow  afternoon 
The  breeze  keeps  pulsing  like  a  tune; 
The  light-house  star  forgets  its  swoonr 

At  fall  of  night. 

And  following  up  the  beckoning  tide, 

They  Hash  and  fade; 
While  the  dark  water-bank  beside 

I  crouch  dismayed. 

The  stars  came  out  like  glittering  tears, 
Waiting  upon  my  hopes  and  fears-; 
The  dipping  oar  salutes  my  ears ; 
I  hear  the  boat's  keel  graze  the  shore, 
My  soul  in  thankful  song  can  soar, 

No  more  afraid! 


TO-DAY. 

To-day  the  sunshine  freely  showers 
Its  benediction  where  we  stand; 

There's  not  a  passing  cloud  that  lowers 
Above  this  pleasant  summer  land; 

Then  let's  not  waste  the  sweet  to-day, 

To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

Perhaps  to-morrow  we  may  be 
(Alas!  Alas!    The  thought  is  pain) 

As  far  apart  as  sky  and  sea, 
Sundered  to  meet  no  more  again ; 

Then,  let  us  clasp  thee,  sweet  to-day, 

To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

The  daylight  fades;  a  purple  beam 
Of  twilight  hovers  overhead, 

While  all  the  trembling  stars  but  seem 
Like  sad  tears,  yet  unshed ; 

O  sweet  to-day,  so  soon  away ! 

To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

43 


K!4  7I1K  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


T.  K.  Wilson  was  born  in  Kittery,  Sept.  6,  1839,  and  his  father  is  still  living  on  the  old 
homestead.  He  lived  at  home  until  17  years  of  age,  when  he  went  to  Portsmouth,  N.  H., 
where  he  lived  most  of  the  time  until  18G8,  when  lie  removed  to  Boston  Highlands,  for 
merly  called  Eoxhury.  Since  1870  Mr  Wilson  has  been  actively  engaged  in  business,  but 
he  has  still  found  leisure,  especially  during  the  last  five  years,  to  do  «ome  literary  work, 
writing  for  a  number  of  publications,  among  them  the  Portland  Transcript,  the  Watch 
man,  etc.  He  is  a  great  lover  of  first-class  literature,  especially  works  of  a  poetical 
character. 


KITTERY. 

Quaint  old  Kittery  town,  Or  from  thy  ruined  wharves 
By  the  shore  of  the  heaving  sea,  To  watch  the  sails  go  by 

With  its  houses,  old  and  brown,  Upon  the  deep  blue  sea, 
My  thoughts  go1  back  to  thee.  Like  clouds  across  the  sky. 

How  often  I  have  strayed  \Vithin  thy  quiet  homes 

Along  thy  dusty  ways,  I've  many  friends  to-day, 

Or  climbed  thy  rugged  hills  And  many  more  have  passed 

In  childhood's  happy  days.  From  earthly  scenes  away. 

Upon  thy  winding  stream  Some  are  sleeping  now 
I  love  to  pull  the  oar,  Within  thy  mossy  graves, 

Or  lie,  as  in  a  dream,  And  some  have  found  their  rest 
Upon  the  grassy  shore;  Beneath  the  ocean's  waves. 

Dear  old  Kittery  town, 

By  the  shore  of  the  heaving  sea, 
As  I  wander  up  and  down. 

My  thoughts  go  back  to  thee. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE. 

The  early  grass  is  springing  O  comrade,  pure  and  tender! 

Above  the  soldier's  grave;  O  soldier,  brave  and  strong! 

The  merry  birds  are  singing  To  thee  we  love  to  render 

Above  the  true-and  brave.  The  tribute  of  our  song. 

My  boyhood  friend  is  sleeping  And,  in  the  life  eternal, 
Within  this  narrow  bed;  Beyond  our  toil  and  pain, 

The  years  are  softly  creeping  Where  all  is  bright  and  vernal, 
Above  the  honored  dead.  We  hope  to  meet  again. 


CHARLES  OR  EN  STICKNEY.  (JH5 


Chas,  O.  Stickney  was  born  in  Bridgton,  Me.,  Nov.  16,  1839,  where  he  has  dwelt  nearly 
all  his  life.  He  was  brought  up  on  a  farm;  educated  at  the  common  schools  and  Bridg 
ton  Academy;  and  at  an  early  age  began  writing  both  verse  and  prose  for  the  public 
press,  particularly  the  Portland  Transcript.  When  only  thirteen  years  old  he  wrote  a 
novel  of  some  thirty  printed  pages,  which  was  published  in  book  form  the  next  year  by 
H.  Putnam,  of  Boston.  In  1869  he  was  "  poet  of  the  evening"  at  a  military  and  civic 
banquet  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  which  notable  representatives  of  Harvard  College,  the 
city  government  and  the  literati  participated,  an  1  at  the  conclusion  of  his  poem  was 
accorded  a  spontaneous  and  enthusiastic  ovation.  Mr.  Stickney  is  a  Grand  Army  man., 
and  has  served  on  the  staff  of  the  Department  Commander  of  the  Maine  G-.  A.  R.  For 
the  last  seventeen  years  he  has  been  local  editor  of  Major  H.  A.  Shorey's  paper,  the 
Bridgton  News  ;  besides  which  he  contributes  miscellaneous  prose  articles  to  the  Port 
land  Transcript,  Boston  Herald,  Journal,  Globe,  fieacon,  and  Transcript,  New  York 
Tribune,  Chicago  Current,  and  other  periodicals.  Has  been  poet  on  Memorial- Day,  and 
other  public  local  occasions.  Mr.  Stickney  is  married  and  resides  near  Bridgton  Centee. 

A  HOPE-FUL  CASE. 
'T  w.is  winter's  night,  and  flames  so  bright 

Were  up  the  chimney  leaping, 
As  Farmer  Jones  and  better-half 

Were  soundly,  sweetly  sleeping; 

And  flakes  of  snow  were  falling  now, 

And  piercing  winds  were  blowing, 
While  Mercy  and  her  sister  Hope 

By  cheerful  blaze  were  sewing. 

'Twas  scarcely  late,  not  more  than  eight — 

But  Jones  was  fond  of  napping— 
When  suddenly  the  maidens  heard 

A  soft,  familiar  rapping. 

Their  blushes  rose — their  loving  beaux, 

To  whom  they'd  promised  "union!" 
Soon  happy  swain  and  maid  again 

Were  holding  glad  communion. 

The  clock  struck  two.     "  It  will  not  do," 

Quoth  Tom,  all  in  a  flurry, 
" To  tarry  thus  so  late!  Come,  Joe, 

Let's  on  our  coats  and  hurry!" 

"O  do  not  go,"  responded  Joe; 
"It  is  not  late — 'tis  morning, 
The  golden  sunlight  soon  will  be 
The  eastern  sky  adorning; 

"Now,  if  till  day  we  here  shall  stay, 

Why,  'Father'  Jones  won't  curse;  he 
Has  bid  me  ever  cherish  Hope, 

To  you  he's  promised  Mercy!1"    . 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


TO  MY  SADDLE-HORSE. 

A  friend  indeed,  thou  faithful  steed ! 

We  traveled  long  together, — 
In  glowing  prime  of  summer-time, 

In  winter's  frosty  weather. 
O'er  hill  and  plain  we'd  dash  amain, — ' 

Through  woods  and  valley  deepest, — 
On  public  road, — in  quiet  lane, — 

Or  climb  yon  mountain  steepest. 

But  gone  for  aye  those  gladsome  days, 

With  time  so  swiftly  fleeting; 
We  journey  now  our  separate  ways — 

No  more  the  olden  meeting. 
My  childhood  home!  that  dearest  spot 

Strange  faces  are  invading, — 
Thy  home,  whence  erst  we'd  sally  out, 

As  knight  and  steed  crusading. 

Long  years  have  flown,  we've  sober  grown, 

And  thou  in  age  declining; 
Yet  still  about  our  "saddle-life" 

Are  memories  sweet  entwining. 
Should  Fate  decree  thou  first  attain 

Of  life  the  final  measure, 
Thy  treasured  portrait  shall  remain, 

To  tell  of  olden  pleasure ! 

"SWEET  SIXTEEN." 

TO    A   SCHOOL-GIRL    ON   HER    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY. 

Old  Time  pursues  his  steady  way 

So  softly  thou  art  scarcely  heeding 
Each  golden,  swift-succeeding  day 

Which  o'er  thy  youthful  head  is  speeding. 
And  lo!  that  interesting  age, 

Far  distant  from  life's  evening  hoary, 
Of  poets'  theme,  of  lovers'  dream, — 

Thy  "sweet  sixteen"  of  song  and  story. 

Thy  girlhood  days  have  quickly  gone, 

Those  days  so  careless  and  elysian, 
And  soon  life's  cares  will  break  upon 

Youth's  rosy  and  romantic  vision. 
Through  coming  years  may  Fortune  kind 

Her  richest  blessings  on  thee  shower; 
And,  free  from  woe  while  here  below, 

May  joy  attend  thy  every  hour. 


REBECCA  PEELEY  REED.  637 


Mrs.  Rebecca  Perley  Reed,  daughter  of  Horatio  X.  and  Anna  P.  F.  Page,  was  born  in 
Brewer,  .Me.,  Feb.  23,  1810.  Graduated  at  Laselle  Seminary,  Auburndale,  Mass.,  in 
1859,  returning  to  the  same  institution  as  a  teacher,  the  following  year.  Married  Mr. 
Charles  E.  Reed  in  1861.  Present  home,  Milwaukee,  Wis.  Has  four  children— an  infant 

daughter  deceased— one  son  and  two  daughters  living.     Has  published  three  books 

"Above  and  Below,"  (a  story  for  children)  "  Everybody's  Providence,"  and  "  From  Shore 
to  Shore,"  (a  sketch  of  the  life  of  Agnes  E.  Claflln,  daughter  of  Gov.  Claflin,  of  Massa 
chusetts.)  Poems  and  prose  articles  for  papers  and  magazines  have  been  contributed 
since  her  early  girlhood  to  the  present  time. 


A  JUXE  SONG  OF  ROSES. 

A  glimmer,  a  shimmer  of  light  by  the  river, 

On  whose  breast  the  pink  shades  of  the  wild  roses  quiver— 

O  dainty  wee  roses,  in  tangles  so  fine, 

From  whose  greenness  your  clusters  of  blossoms  outshine, 

Breathe  your  breath,  raise  your  bloom  for  the  chance  passer-by, 

Bring  a  thought  of  the  youth  that  behind  him  doth  lie; 

Wild  roses,  wild  rq^es,  speak  clear  to  his  ear 

Your  fresh  woodland  message  of  comfort  and  cheer! 

From  the  rail  how  they  trail,  blown  a-breeze  by  the  ga<», 

With  pennons  clown  flung,  as  the  winds  sink  and  fail— 

Bright  roses  of  crimson,  with  jewels  of  rain 

Showered  thick  on  their  heads  as  they  flash  back  again; 

O  proud,  queenly  rose,  flame-engirdled  and  red, 

The  tempest  hath  dowered  thine  unvanquished  head. 

Red  roses,  red  roses,  bloom  ruddy  and  bright, 

Through  the  warm,  balmy  day,  and  the  still  summer  night! 

White  roses,  white  roses,  with  balmy  incloses 
Of  soft  opal  light,  in  their  heart  which  reposes; 
So  wide-spread  of  fragrance,  so  lavish  of  flowers, 
Drinking  life  from  the  wind  and  the  sun  and  the  showers, 
Pure  faced  as  saints,  and  like  them,  making  fair 
The  unsightly  dwelling  of  labor  and  care, — 
White  roses,  white  roses,  drink  deep  of  the  dew, 
Lift  your  beautiful  heads  to  the  firmament  blue ! 

O  looping  and  drooping  of  roses  moss-covered, 

By  the  wing  of  the  tenderest  flower-angel  hovered; 

A-blush  with  your  beauty — a-tremble  with  joj, 

In  a  life  whose  perfection  care  cannot  alloy. 

Life  to  life— breath  to  breath— bloom  to  bloom— laughing  girls, 

Bind  the  opening  buds  'round  your  clustering  curls: 

Moss-roses,  moss-roses,  O  tell  not  of  shade, 

Nor  sigh  that  the  gold  of  their  tresses  must  fade! 


7777?  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Warm-hearted,  wide-parted,  with  petals  just  started, 
To  fold  in  the  kisses  the  sunbeams  have  darted, 
Soft,  dainty  buff  roses  of  tropical  light, 
With  rarest  of  sun-tinted  garments  bedight: 
Faint  odors  attend  you,  most  subtle  and  still, 
That  seek  out  our  senses,  unasked  of  our  will; 
Lie  lightly,  pale  roses,  oii  hearts  that  are  hushed — 
Tress  tenderly  cheeks  that  are  fading  to  dust ! 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PEARL. 

In  the  silent  deep  where  the  waters  sleep, 

And  the  light  its  living  ray 
Sends  with  softened  beam  through  the  emerald  gleam 

From  the  golden  upper  day, 
It  lay  in  the  gloom  of  its  living  tomb, 

The  oyster,  dull  and  gray. 

Overhead,  the  flow,  tiding  vast  and  slow, 
Through  the  centuries  unknown, 

Moved  with  mighty  feet,  in  unceasing  beat 
Of  eternal  monotone. 

While  life's  feeble  spark  in  the  prison  dark 
Held  its  faint,  pale  light  alone. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  against  the  lime 

Of  the  coarse  and  curving  shell, 
Pressed  a  grain  of  sand,  and  the  guarding  band 

A  strange,  dull  pain  befell. 
Still  the  atom  pressed,  and  by  sheer  unrest 

Wrought  the  story  that  I  tell. 

Of  the  strange  dread  fear  we  shall  never  hear 
That  grappled  the  poor  dumb  thing; 

And  the  helpless  throes  of  his  new-born  woes 
No  witness  shallever  sing. 

Tet  the  tale  is  told  by  the  years  grown  old, 
And  the  treasure  that  they  bring! 

Round  the  cruel  wound  in  its  fibre  bound, 

From  his  life  a  balm  is  shod 
Whose  assuaging  flow  may  relieve  his  woe 

As  he  lies  in  his  ocean  bed, 
That  shall  soften  the  strain  of  the  strange  new  pain 

Which  will  not  be  comforted. 


SOPHIA   WJLSON  MARSH. 


As  the  slow-shod  days  rolled  their  weary  ways, 

Round  the  oft  recurrent  pain, 
When  the  balm  grew  chill,  still  the  blind  true  will 

Poured  its  easing  flood  again, 
Till,  from  out  the  night,  to  the  upper  light 

By  the  diver's  hand  it  came! 

Then  lo!  when  cleft,  of  its  shell  bereft, 

On  the  shimmering  lining  rare, 
Glowed  in  radiant  white  with  a  lambent  light 

A  pearl  most  wondrous  fair! 
JL-i/e,  time  and  pain  wrought  a  lasting  gain 

In  the  gem  that  a  king  shall  wear! 
****** 

He  who  will  may  tell  of  the  parallel; 

Of  life's  ocean,  rolling  ever: 
How  we  ease  in  vain  our  repeated  pain 

With  the  soul's  tears,  shed  forever! 
Yet  the  pearl  finds  place  through  the  dear  Lord's  grace, 

When  ///'.s'  hand  the  shell  shall  sever! 


Jf/w  Hoplm   lp/S(W 


Ann  Sophia  (Wilson)  Marsh  was  born  Aug.  14.  1838,  at  Wilson's  Mills,  Me.  She  waa 
first  married,  in  18G2.  to  Enoch  Whittemotv,  a  soldier  of  the  20th  Maine  Regiment,  who 
took  leave  of  her,  one  week  after  their  nru  riage,  to  fight  for  freedom  and  the  Union,  but 
who  died  of  sickness  immediately  after  his  first  engagement  (Antietam.)  Her  second 
marriage  occurred  in  the  year  187(5.  She  commenced  writing  verses  while  a  girl  "in  her 
"teens;  "  was  always  of  an  emotion;;!  and  highly-  nervous  temperament,  slender  and  del 
icate  physique,  but  withal  of  indomitable  energy  and  persistency  in  what  she  undertook. 
Her  residence  is  now  at  Newton  Falls,  Mass. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN"  BRYAXT. 

Nature's  own  filial  child  and  devotee, 
Long  fondled  in  her  lap,  and  kindly  nursed; 

Thou  livest  still  in  halls  of  poesy! 
Thy  name  imperishable,  thy  words  rehearsed! 

Youngest  of  all  Apollo  e'er  inspired, 
Responsive  from  a  child  to  his  decree! 

"f  was  thine  to  wake  unexampled  lyre, 
With  childhood's  pure,  unsullied  sympathy! 

When  first  thy  strain,  like  fabled  harper's  touch, 
Around  thee  drew  dumb  life  and  rocks  and  trees; 

And  not  the  least  of  thy  pure  joys  were  such 
As  they  know  only  who  converse  with  these ! 


640  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  pressing  toward  a  sure  and  shining  goal, 
Lured  onward  by  the  goddess  fair  of  song ! 

'Twas  thine  in  youth  from  music's  golden  bowl 
To  pour  thought's  rich  and  sparkling  tide  along! 

It  murmurs  in  "the  cold  November  rain," 
Now  that  "the  flowers  are  lying  in  their  bed," 

And  "the  melancholy  days  are  come  again," 
And  "Autumn  leaves,  heaped  in  the  grove,  lie  dead." 

Its  cadence  greets  me  in  "my  Autumn  walk," 
It  speaks  to  me  from  out  "the  evening  winds," 

And  haunts  the  white  snow  when  "flake  after  flake 
In  the  dark  silent  lake  oblivion  finds." 

But  no  more  we  hear  it  in  "the  hurricane" 

That  sweeps  "the  battle  field"  where  wrong  and  right 

Contend,  and  where  in  slavery's  galling  chain 
The  wretch  lies  prone,  in  fell  oppression's  might. 

"To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature"  finds 

His  sympathy,  his  rest,  his  melody, 
Will  e'er  be  borne  a  name  on  "softest  wings" 

That  counts  its  charms  with  true  love's  ecstacy! 

Kind,  royal  benefactor  of  mankind! 

A  world,  more  sweet  that  in  it  thou  didst  live, 
Pauses  to-day  a  laurel  wreath  to  bind 

Around  thy  name, — the  last  the  world  can  give ! 


jjjfdtvard 


Rev.  E  Iward  P.  Woodward  was  born  June  8,  1840,  at  Warsaw,  X.  Y.,  and  is  at  present 
a  resident  of  Harrison,  Me.,  where  Us  h'ts  resi  led  four  years  as  a  preacher  of  the  Advent 
Christian  denomination.  Prior  to  his  residence  in  Harrison,  he  preached  six  years  as  a 
member  of  the  Christian  Church.  Mr.  Woo  Iward  has  recently  accepted  a  call  from  the 
Second  Advent  Church,  in  Portland,  and  enters  upon  his  duties  with  this  society.  June 
1,  1888  He  lias  contributed  meritorious  articles,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  to  the  Gospel 
Banner,  World's  Crisis,  and  various  other  religious  and  secular  publications,  and  has 
been  a  popular  lecturer  on  scientific  and  religious  subjects  for  ten  years.  The  following 
poem,  which  has  attracted  considerable  attention,  originally  appeared  in  the  Cottaye 
Hearth  Magazine. 


"THE  BELLES." 

A   PARODY. 

See  the  sledges  with  the  belles— 
Laughing  belles ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  UK  rriment  foretells! 
How  their  beaming,  black  eyes  twinkle 
In  the  frosty  air  of  night ! 


EDWARD  PAY  SON   WOODWARD.  641 


While  the  sleigh-bells  tinkle,  tinkle, 
And  the  flakes  their  heads  besprinkle, 

Filling  with  a  strange  delight; 
Keeping  time,  merry  time, 
In  the  most  unfettered  rhyme, 

To  the  merry,  joyous  laughter  that  so  sweetly,  richly  swells 
From  the  wildly-throbbing  bosoms  of  the  belles: 

Belles,  belles,  belles,— 
From  the  happy,  careless,  laughter-loving  belles! 

See  the  stately,  wedded  belles — 
Queenly  belles! 

What  a  wealth  of  mother-love  their  quiet  manner  tells! 
In  the  silent  hours  of  night, 
To  the  little  ones'  delight, 
From  the  trembling,  swan-like  throats — 

In  broken  tune — 

What  sweet,  low,  soothing  music  floats 
To  the  little  dove  that  nestles,  gently  borne 

Around  the[room. 
•O  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  peaceful  harmony  continuously  wells! 
Now  it  swells, — 
Anon  it  dwells 

On  the  past;  and  then  it  tells 
Of  the  future  that  impels 
To  the  toiling  and  the  praying 
Of  the  belles,— 
Of  the  earnest- hearted  belles: 

Belles,  belles,  belles, — 
To  the  watching  and  the  waiting  of  the  belles! 

•See  the  anguish-stricken  belles- 
Weeping  belles ! 

What  days  of  wasting  sorrow  their  terror  now  foretells! 
And  the  gentle  eye  of  night 
Looks  upon  them  in  their  fright, 
Crushed  beyond  the  power  to  speak: 
Only  now  and  then  a  shriek — 

Discord's  tune — 

With  despairing  heart  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire,— 
.Struggling  helplessly  with  rapine's  withering,  wasting  fire,- 
liising  stronger,  fiercer,  higher, 
With  insatiable  desire 
Now  to  seize  and  blast  forever 
Virtue's  tower  and  beauty's  bloom  ! 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


O  deceived  and  ruined  belles  ! 
With  a  wail  their  horror  wells 

From  despair! 

How  they  groan,  and  writhe,  and  pom- 
Sighs  and  tears  so  vainly  o'er 
Unpitying  earth  and  trembling  air! 
And  the  ear  too  plainly  knows 

By  the  sighing, 

And  the  crying', 

How  their  anguish  ebbs  and  flows, 
And  to  the  ear  it  plainly'  tells 

In  the  groaning, 

And  the  moaning, 
How  this  nameless  horror  swells, 
By  the  mad,  despairing  accents  of  these  hopeless,  helpless  belles 

Of  the  belles.— 
Of  the  belles,  the  weeping,  sorrowing  belles; 

Belles,  belles,  belles,— 
Of  the  broken-hearted,  crushed,  despairing  belles! 

Sad  procession  of  the  belles- 

Fallen  belles! 

What  weird,  solemn,  awful  thoughts  their  passing-by  compels! 
'Neath  the  flickering  gaslight, 
How  the  soul  is  tilled  with  fright 
At  the  hollow,  ringing  mockery  of  their  tone! 
And  each  sound  and  word  that  floats 
From  their  brazen-coated  throats, 

Seems  a  groan! 

But  the  people!  —they  who  dwell 
On  the  dark  confines  of  hell, 

All  alone, 
Planning,  plotting,  darkly  working, 

Hating  all,  beloved  by  none,  — 
And  who  revel  thus  in  turning 
«  Tender,  loving  hearts  to  stone, 

«  Are  they  either  man  or  woman  ? 
Are  they  either  brute  or  human  ? 

Unpitying  ghouls! 
And  their  king  it  is  who  rolls 
Agony  on  human  souls,— 

Tolls 

The  knell  of  fallen  belles! 
And  his  fiendish  bosom  swells 
As  he  counts  the  ruined  belles  :— 
And  in  mad  delight  he  yells, 


ALBERT  SOBIESKl  TWITCHELL.  643 


Dunces,  wildly  keeping  time — 
Paying  little  heed  to  rhyme- 
To  the  sighing  of  the  belles,— 

Of  the  belles: 

Keeping  swift,  unmeasured  time 
To  the  groaning  of  the  belles, 
Of  the  belles,  belles,  belles,— 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  belles : 
Keeping  time — glad  time; 

As  he  knells,  madly  knells 
In  a  proud,  triumphant  rhyme, 

To  the  curses  of  the  belles, 
Of  the  belles,  shameless  belles, — 
To  the  wailing  of  the  belles, 
Of  the  belles,  fallen,  dying  belles, 
Belles,  belles,  belles,— 
To  the  silence  and  the  darkness  of  LOST 


obieshi 


Gen.  Twitchell  was  born  in  Bethel,  Me.,  Sept.  16,  1840.  In  the  spring  of  1803  lie  was 
appointed  Enrolling  Officer  for  the  war  draft  in  his  home  district,  and  at  the  completion 
of  these  duties,  in  December,  1863,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  7th  Maine  Light  Bat 
tery;  was  made  Quartermaster-Sergeant  at  its  organization,  and  served  until  detailed  by 
teen.  Grant  for  duty  at  West  Point.  VH.,  in  February,  1805.  He  has  held  the  offices  of 
Town  Clerk  in  Maine,  and  Selectman  and  School  Committee  in  New  Hampshire.  In  1872, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-two,  he  was  elected  Railroad  Commissioner,  and  served  three  years. 
In  1875  he  was  appointed  on  Gov.  P.  C.  Cheney's  (New  Hampshire)  staff  with  the  rank  of 
Colonel.  He  was  Postmaster  of  Gorham,  X.  H  ,  from  1877  until  July,  1880,  when  he 
resigned.  He  is  now  in  the  active  practice  of  law,  in  company  with  Carl  Abbott,  and 
has  done  much  in  erecting  buildings  for  business  and  public  use,  in  Gorham,  N.  H.,  his 
place  of  residence.  Mr.  Twitchell  is  President  of  the  New  Hampshire  Veteran  Soldiers' 
Association,  and  in  June,  1887,  was  appointed  Commissary-General  on  the  staff  of  Gov. 
Charles  H.  Sawyer,  of  Ne\v  Hampshire. 


THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  OF  BETHEL. 

AX   EXTRACT. 

1  had  some  relatives  by  name 
Of  TWITCHELL,  who  to  Bethel  came, 
The  first  of  all  who  built  their  nest 
Within  the  place  that  God  has  blessed; 
They  opened  up  these  fertile  farms, 
These  happy  homes,  and  all  the  charms 
Which  since  have  come  to  hill  and  vale- 
Through  prayer  and  faith  hope  cannot  fail. 
***-**# 

Good  people  they,  in  home-spun  dressed, 
With  health  and  plenty  truly  blessed; 
Not  plenty,  such  as  now  we  need 
To  keep  pace  with  the  modern  greed, 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


But  store  of  health  and  strength  and  sense, 

That  truly  made  their  joys  "immense." 

They  knew  no  God  of  Fashion  then, 

To  weaken  women,  sicken  men; 

The  God  they  worshiped  was  on  high, 

No  fashion-plate  then  filled  the  eye, 

Great  bustles  and  long  corset  strings, 

Nor  busts,  nor  any  such  vile  things 

Were  known ;  the  girls  grew  strong  and  well, 

Nor  looked  like  images  to  sell, 

As  now  they  look  with  Demorest, 

Bazar  and  Butterick  holding  sway; 

Their  waists  were  not  squeezed  tightly  then, 

Unless  by  living  Jonathan, 

Who  did  his  courting  on  the  square ! 

Divorce  in  that  old  time  was  rare.     *    * 

Ah!  all  the  blessings  we  have  won 

Cannot  atone  for  injury  done 

To  happy  homes,  to  .life  and  health, 

Which  in  that  olden  time  were  wealth. 

Then,  by  our  heavenly  Father  led, 

They  saw  this  land  with  richness  fed, 

And,  camping  by  the  cooling  streams, 

They  found  at  last  their  land  of  dreams; 

And  when  in  after  years  they  came 

To  love  it,  and  to  give  it  name, 

They  called  it  "BETHEL" — it  had  been 

A  Bethel,  truly,  unto  them ! 


*nr!i 

K  Rev.  Henry  B.  Carpenter  was  born  in  Ireland,  about  18-10.  He  came  to  Fryeburg,  Me., 
to  spend  a  few  weeks  of  a  summer  vacation,  in  the  spring  of  1874,  and  found  bis  boine 
and  surroundings  so  pleasant  for  a  gentleman  of  literary  leisure,  that  his  contemplated 
vacation  was  lengthened  to  a  two  years'  sojourn.  While  there  he  supplied  vacant  pul 
pits,  and  lectured  in  various  places  upon  the  great  orators,  poets,  and  literary  men  of 
England  and  Ireland.  He  is  the  author  of  a  humorous  poem,  entitled  "  The  Oatmeal  Cru 
saders,"  published  in  pamphlet  form.  He  supplied  the  Congregational  Church  in  Bridg- 
ton  for  three  years  from  1875.  He  wrote  a  drama  entitled  "  New  America;  or  the  Young 
Folks  at  Home."  A  dramatic  company  was  organized  at  Bridgton,  and  bi'ought  out  this 
.play  at  several  places,  which  was  well  received.  In  1878,  Mr.  Carpenter  was  called  to  the 
pulpit  of  the  Hollis  Street  Church,  Boston,  in  which  Pierpout  and  Starr  King,  both  poet- 
preachers,  had  ministered  before  him.  The  society  rapidly  increased  under  his  popular 
pastorate.  A  fine  edifice  was  completed  at  the  South  End, 'but,  being  encumbered  with  a 
heavy  debt,  was  sold  to  Edward  Everett  H  ale's  society,  the  two  societies  being  merged 
into  one.  Mr.  Carpenter  had  not  long  been  in  Boston  before  he  was  recognized  as  a  man 
of  brilliant  talents  and  fine  culture,  with  a  poetical  temperament  which  gave  marked 
individuality  to  his  speech  and  writings.  He  wrote  a  striking  poem  on  "Fryeburg," 
specially  for  that  attractive  brochure,  recently  published,  "  The  Fryeburg  Webster 
Memorial."  Mr.  Carpenter  has  also  contributed  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other 
leading  magazines.  His  volume  entitled,  "  Liber  Amoris,"  published  not  long  since,  has 
given  him  a  permanent  place  among  our  poets.  He  is  now  in  the  Old  World,  writing  a 
series  of  literary  papers  for  the  Boston  Sunday  Globe. 


HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER.  645 


LOVED  AND  LOST. 

In  the  pathless  brake  by  the  brook's  wet  stone, 
Whose  water  and  wood  to  each  other  mo  m, 
We  sat  for  a  golden  hour  alone, 

None  envied  our  joy,  for  we  only  heard 

The  tell-tale  note  of  the  startled  bird. 

The  pine-trees  around  stood  dreaming  and  still; 
I  saw  not  the  lilies  which  drank  their  fill 
As  they  swooned  on  the  pond;  I  heard  not  the  mill 
Turn  its  trundled  wheel  to  the  wave  above, 
Like  a  full  heart  beating  in  ceaseless  love. 

Noon  called  for  calm  eve,  but  I  knew  it  not, 
For  earth  with  its  life  and  pain  was  forgot, 
And  heaven's  full  glory  crowned  the  spot, 

Till  I  heeded  not  how  the  evening  star 

Rose  as  the  herald  of  night  from  far; 

For  thy  words  alone  were  sweet  in  my  ear, 
And  thy  looks  were  to  me  like  starlight  clear, 
Aye,  all  things  were  distant,  while  thou  wert  near; 

Time  itself  had  died,  so  it  seemed  to  me, 

And  Life  was  now  Immortality. 

I  could  not  speak ;  she  drew  to  my  side, 

My  cheek  she  caressed,  and  its  tear  she  dried, 

Then  bowing  low,  "O  my  darling,"  she  cried, 

"I  am  yours" — and  on  my  neck  she  hung, 

Then  weeping  she  kissed  me,  and  wept  and  clung. 

We  parted;  she  passed  through  her  father's  gate, 

He  rose  from  his  chair  with  words  of  hate, 

He  scoffed  at  her  love,  he  cursed  her  mate, 

He  cursed  her  mother,  who  hears  not,  but  sleeps 
In  her  grave  where  the  ash-tree  whispers  and  weeps. 

Another  came,  rich,  brainless  and  bold, 
A  crested  lie  on  his  carriage  was  scrolled, 
He  reached  out  his  base-born  hand  of  gold ; 

"Be  his  wife,"  cried  the  tyrant-father,  and  swore, 

"  Or  leave  me  this  hour  for  evermore. 

"You  will  not?  Away!  get  hence  to  your  room, 
I  '11  watch  at  your  door  with  footman  and  groom, 
You  shall  never  go  forth  unless  to  your  tomb" — 

•     " My  mother!"  she  sobbed,  then  left  them  and  fled 
To  weep  all  night  on  the  stone  of  the  dead. 


646  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

In  the  morning  I  came,  and  found  her  there, 

With  folded  hands  and  in  wan  despair; — 

My  love !  how  she  gazed  with  a  moon-struck  air, 

And  murmured  my  name,  though  she  knew  me  not, 
As  I  bore  her  weak  frame  to  a  neighboring  lot. 

Three  days  went  round;  I  watched  by  her  bed, 

She  lay  in  her  marble  trance  like  the  dead; 

The  fourth  day  dawned,  and  she  raised  her  head, 

Drew  my  friendly  hand  to  her  tear-wet  breast, 
Kissed  my  tear- wet  lips,  and  sank  to  rest. 

Lost  angel !  my  Morn-star  of  Memory ! 
Lead  me  on  to  the  land  of  thy  cloudless  day, 
To  the  spirit-land,  whence  I  hear  thee  say, 

"Bear  and  be  brave; — though  thou  must  weep, 
The  sun's  on  the  dial,  the  shadows  creep." 

But  O,  to  think  that  nevermore 

I  shall  speak  to  her  as  I  spoke  before, 

In  lane  or  in  garden,  by  hill  or- by  shore, 

Or,  alone,  alone,  alone, 

In  the  pathless  brake  by  the  brook's  wet  stone! 


mjmnin 


Born  July  10,  1841,  in  Exeter,  Me.  Educated  in  the  common  schools,  supplemented  by 
a  few  terms  at  East  Corinth  Academy,  Levant  High  School,  and  Gould's  Academy,  Bethel, 
under  the  tuition  of  his  cousin,  now  President  of  the  State  College  at  Orono— M.  C.  Fer- 
nald.  Benjamin  afterwards  received  instruction  at  Kent's  Hill  and  at  Edward  Little 
Institute,  entering  Bowdoin  College  in  1865.  Illness  prevented  the  completion  of  his 
course.  He  partially  recovered  his  health,  however,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Feb 
ruary,  18G8.  He  followed  teaching  sometime  after  his  admission  to  the  bar,  removing 
to  Winn,  where  he  has  since  resided.  He  has  held  several  offices  of  trust,  and  has  also 
been  a  newspaper  correspondent  for  several  years,  contributing  to  the  Lewiston  Jour 
nal.  Banqor  Whig  and  Courier,  etc.,  and  wrote  the  history  of  several  towns  for  the 
work  on  Penobscot  County. 

PLAYING  COPENHAGEN. 
Playing  Copenhagen,  Pretty  girl  with  careless  lingers, 

There  is  much  fun  in  it!  Eyes  half  turned  the  other  way, 

Hit  a  girl's  hand  now,  Happy  gallant  never  lingers, 

Kiss  her  the  next  minute.  Never  asks  her  if  he  may. 

"There,  I've  hit  your  hand,"  Hit  a  miss  a  love-pat  token, 
"Thought  you  did  so,  mister,"  Touch  her  fingers  on  the  twine, 

Arm  around  her  neck,  "Yes"  or  "no"  is  never  spoken, 
Then,  by  Jove,  I  kissed  her!  Earned  the  kiss,  and  it  is  mine. 

Magic  circle  this,  Lassie  now  within  the  ring 

Elfin  fairies  use  it—  Touches  finger-tips  and  'scapes, 

Should  you  earn  a  kiss,  Useless  now  to  fly  on  wing- 
Seize  it  or  you  lose  it.  Yam  your  crying  "Sour  grapes." 


OLIVIA  FEN  NO  CO  [VAN  HAYES.  647 


This  is  very  Christian-like — • 
Returning  kiss  for  blow, 

If  lad  or  lassie  doth  you  strike, 
Pressed  lip  checks  the  "no." 


a 

"Fenno  Hayes"  was  born  in  Augusta,  in  1841.  Her  maiden  name  was  Olivia  Fenno 
Cowan.  When  she  was  a  childjher  father  removed  to  Saco,  and  later  to  Biddeford,  where 
he  was  editor  of  the  Union  and  Journal.  She  was  married  at  twenty-one  to  E  H. 
Hayes,  a  lawyer,  and  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  remainder  of  her  life  in  Berwick. 
She  died  in  early  middle  life,  leaving  four  children.  She  began  in  childhood  to  write. 
Before  she  was  twelve  years  of  age,  several  little  poems  and  sketches  were  published. 
Her  school  friends  all  remember  her  as  a  bright,  eager,  brilliant  girl  of  considerable  per 
sonal  beauty,  to  which  her  kind  heart  and  tender  conscience  added  a  gentleness  of 
expression  very  lovable.  For  many  years  before  her  death,  she  was  a  regular  contribu 
tor  of  stories  and  poems  to  the  Portlanst,  Transcript,  besides  frequently  writing  for 
other  publications.  As  wife  and  mother,  she  had  but  little  leisure  for  literary  work,  but 
the  spirit  within  stirred  and  expressed  itself  in  a  way  that  her  readers  remember.  As  it 
is  always  with  the  truest  people,  only  her  most  intimate  friends  knew  the  rare  and  com 
pleted  beauty  of  her  last  years— which  gave  such  strength  and  pathos  to  the  productions 
of  that  time.  She  was  a  genuine  blossom  of  our  Pine  Tree  State— bravely  reaching 
heavenward  like  its  pines— and  modestly  shunning  notice  like  its  beautiful  arbutus. 


LOVE'S  PAIX. 

To  love  is  pain,  since  for  us  all 
Life  hath  so  much  of  grief  and  woe; 

On  him  doth  least  of  sorrow  fall 
Who  only  his  own  dole  may  know. 

But  O,  to  hold  another's  heart 
So  close  we  thrill  at  every  throb, 

And  helpless  know  its  bitter  smart 
Nor  yet  can  stay  the  cruel  rod! 

O  tender,  tender  Christ,  if  there 

In  life  a  sharper  anguish  be, 
A  heavier,  thornier  cross  to  bear, 

Be  pitiful,  and  spare  it  me ! 

Who  walks  alone  his  even  way 

No  clasping  hand  from  his  shall  miss. 

For  him  shall  never  come  the  day 
Of  dying  love's  cold  parting  kiss. 

Who  loves  must  suffer;  yet  we  hold 

That  dearest  which  doth  cost  most  dear, 

And  who  the  price  of  pearl  hath  told 
That  hides  within  life's  pitying  tear. 


648  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


THE  SAILOK'S  WIFE. 

I  can  bear  it  all  the  day  Do  you  mind  that  tale  accurst, 

When  the  sun  shines  glad  and  gay,  Of  mad  hunger  and  wild  thirst, 

And  the  children,  at  their  play,  When  than  death  the  end  was  worse, 

Claim  me,  heart  and  hand;  With  its  ship- wrecked  band  ? 

But  when  all  is  said  and  done,  O  why  did  you  tell  it  me 

Hushed  in  sleep  the  baby  fun,  To  come  back  when  you're  at  sea 

Then  my  torture  is  begun,  And  forever  follow  me 

And  I  tremble  and  I  shrink  Till  I  wake  with  start  and  .scream, 

As  I  think,  as  I  think,  As  I  dream,  as  I  dream, 

Here  alone  on  land.  Here  alone  on  land. 

When  the  night  is  black  and  thick,  Sometimes  when  the  storm  is  o'er, 

In  my  fancy,  sad  and  sick,  Stilled  the  tempest's  cry  and  roar, 

I  can  hear  the  death-watch  tick,  Calm  more  dread  than  rage  before, 

Still  my  pulses  stand;  I  can  see  a  strand; 

And  I  shiver  in  the  wind,  High  upon  the  barren  beach, 

And  the  salt  spray  makes  me  blind,  Where  the  waves  forever  reach 

As  I  grope  your  side  to  find,  Hungrier  than  the  hungry  leech, 

Breasting  with  you  every  gale  You  lie  dumb  in  death's  deaf  sleep, 

As  I  sail,  as  I  sail,  And  I  weep,  and  I  weep, 

Here  alone  on  land.  Here  alone  on  land. 

Thus  my  heart  is  sad  and  sore, 
Sailing  with  you,  yet  on  shore, 
Land-becalmed  and  tempest-tore, 

Helpless,  heart  and  hand; 
I  was  never  brave,  like  you, 
Weak  and  weeping,  only  true, 
Tell  me,  what  can  woman  do 
When  her  love  sails  leagues  away, 
But  to  pray,  but  to  pray, 

Here  alone  on  land. 


Jjttnrqxret  M.  $ 

V^s7^>  O  H^U         ^W7 


Mrs.  Margaret  A.  Bolles,  daughter  of  Ellen  M.  an  1  G3org3  S.  Bvrstow,  was  born  in 
Portland,  Me.  She  received  her  education  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city,  graduating 
from  the  High  School  in  1860.  In  1863  she  married  Kev.  E.  G.  Bolles,  D.  D.,  for  many 
years  pastor  of  the  First  Universalist  Church  in  Portland.  Her  residence  is  now  in  New 
York  City. 


ILLUMINATED  TEXTS. 

Behold  the  wondrous  rainbows  which  joyous  summer  weaves, 
Reflected  in  the  brightness  of  glowing  autumn  leaves ! 
In  sunset's  golden  halo  the  dying  day  is  dressed; 
So  sinks  the  year  in  glory,  to  sleep  in  wintry  rest. 


MARGARET  A.  B OLLES.  649 


From  every  wood  and  highway  gay  banners  are  unfurled, 
And  beauty,  gorgeous  beauty,  enwraps  the  leafy  world. 
As  in  some  realm  enchanted,  'neath  this  October  sky, 
I  gather  bright  mementoes  of  all  the  splendors  nigh; 
More  fair  than  jeweled  treasures,  from  each  resplendent  tree, 

0  beauteous  leaves !  ye  gladden  the  wintry  hours  to  me  : 
With  emerald  tints  and  crimson,  and  sunshine  blending  all, 
Texts  ne'er  illumed  so  richly,  ye  hang  upon  my  wall. 

1  read  anew  the  lesson,  we  all  do  fade  like  thee, 

And  think  if  half  thy  glory  my  autumn  days  may  see, 
If  I,  like  thee,  may  gather  the  sunbeams  of  the  year, 
And  so  reflect  life's  blessings,  when  harvest- time  is  near, 
If  past  all  storms  and  trials,  my  work  like  thine  is  blessed, 
I  could,  like  thee,  as  nobly  await  my  earthly  rest. 


GENTIANS. 

O,  every  year,  when  autumn  came. 
We  thought  that  from  the  skies 

Had  dropped  upon  our  dull  earththere 
A  bit  of  Paradise; 

For  on  the  field  the  gentians  grew, 

And  all  the  ground  was  blue,  so  blue. 

O,  every  year  we  gathered  there 
These  blossoms,  one  by  one, 

These  children  of  the  old  year's  lover 
The  darlings  of  the  sun, 

And  said  the  half  had  notl>een  told, 

Such  beauty  did  their  petals  hold. 

I  said  their  tint  alone  could  match 
The  light  in  her  dear  eyes, 

As  from  their  fringes  they  looked  out, 
In  beautiful  surprise ; 

And  that  so  tender,  brave'and  true, 

The  types  of  her  sweet  self,  they  grew. 

I  never  thought  that  like  them,  too, 
Her  eyes  so  soon  would  close, 

To  open  only  when  the  bright 
Eternal  dawn  arose; 

O,  sore  I  grieved  when  autumn  came, 

But  still  the  gentians  smiled  the  same. 

What  could  I,  but  place  o'er  her  grave 
These  treasures  of  her  love, 

43 


050  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  there,  like  them  in  trustfulness, 

Look  up  to  her  above  ? 
Do  fairer  flowers  her  heart  enshrine  ? 
Is  heavenly  love  more  dear  than  mine  ? 


inat 

nrhis  popular  clergyman  and  author  was  born  in  Norridgewock,  J une  10, 1841,  that  fine  old 
village  on  the  banks  of  the  Kennebec.  During  his  boyhood  he  studied  in  a  general  way 
with  the  idea  of  ultimately  entering  college,  but  ill-health  interfered  with  his  plans,  and 
though  he  had  fitted  himself  to  enter  he  never  went  to  college.  Having  always  been  a 
bookworm  from  the  time  he  was  able  to  read,  the  evidences  of  his  after  fame  in  the 
world  of  literature  were  early  manifest.  He  graduated  from  the  Bangor  Theological 
Seminary,  in  1801,  and  in  September  of  the  same  year,  sailed  for  California,  to  engage  in 
home  missionary  work  in  that  locality.  He  was  lir.-^t  assigned  to  San  Mateo,  a  beautiful 
suburb  of  San  Francisco,  where  he  remained  a  year  and  a  half,  and  was  then  called  to 
another  church  in  the  Grass  Valley  region,  among  the  foot-hills  of  the  Sierras.  He  also 
preached  there  for  a  year  and  a  half.  On  account  of  his  parents,  who  were  at  this  time 
getting  alonw  in  life,  he  relinquished  his  labors  in  California,  and  came  East  again.  He 
subsaquently  preached  in  Framingham,  Mass.,  and  from  thence  went  West,  being  in'flu- 
enced  to  take  this  action  by  the  fact  that  his  brother  was  settled  in  Jacksonville,  111.  He 
preached  three  and  a  half  years  in  Hannibal,  Mo.,  and  then  accepted  a  call  from  Chi- 
crt<*o.  He  began  his  first  work  in  Boston  at  the  Church  of  the  Unity,  where  he  is 
still  pastor,  in  September,  1874.  Mr.  Savage  is  now  regarded  as  one  of  the  theological 
lions  of  the  day.  His  remarks  are  always  taken  down  in  short-hand,aud  for  the  past  eleven 


To-Day"  —the  latter  his  only  production  in  the  way  of  fiction 


LIGHT  ON  THE  CLOUD. 

There 's  never  an  always  cloudless  sky, 

There's  never  a  vale  so  fair, 
But  over  it  sometimes  shadows  lie 

In  a  chill  and  songless  air. 

But  never  a  cloud  o'erhung  the  day, 
And  flung  its  shadows  down, 

But  on  its  heaven-side  gleamed  some  ray, 
Forming  a  sunshine  crown. 

It  is  dark  on  only  the  downward  side : 
Though  rage  the  tempest  loud, 

And  scatter  its  terrors  far  and  wide, 
There's  light  upon  the  cloud. 


And  often,  when  it  traileth  low, 
Shutting  the  landscape  out, 

And  only  the  chilly  cast  winds  blow 
From  the  foggy  seas  of  doubt, 


MINOT  J.  S A  VA GE.  651 


There'll  come  a  time,  near  the  setting  sun, 
When  the  joys  of  life  seem  few, 

A  rift  will  break  in  the  evening  dun, 
And  the  golden  light  stream  through. 

And  the  soul  a  glorious  bridge  will  make 

Out  of  the  golden  bars, 
And  all  its  priceless  treasures  take 

Where  shine  the  eternal  stars. 

THE  PESCADERO  PEBBLES. 

Where  slopes  the  beach  to  the  setting  sun, 

On  the  Pescadero  shore, 
Forever  and  ever  the  restless  surf 

Rolls  up  with  its  sullen  roar. 

And  grasping  the  pebbles  in  white  hands, 

And  chafing  them  together, 
And  grinding  them  against  the  cliffs 

In  stormy  and  sunny  weather, 

It  gives  them  never  any  rest. 

All  day,  all  night,  the  pain 
Of  their  long  agony  sobs  on, 

Sinks,  and  then  swells  again. 

And  tourists  come  from  every  clime 

To  search  with  eager  care 
For  those  whose  rest  has  been  the  least, 

For  such  have  grown  most  fair. 

But  yonder,  round  a  point  of  rock, 

In  a  quiet,  sheltered  cove, 
Where  storm  ne'er  breaks,  and  sea  ne'er  comes, 

The  tourists  never  rove. 

The  pebbles  lie  'neath  the  sunny  sky 

Quiet  for  evermore : 
In  dreams  of  everlasting  peace 

They  sleep  upon  the  shore. 

But  ugly,  and  rough,  and  jagged  still 
Are  they  left  by  the  passing  years ; 

For  they  miss  the  beat  of  angry  storms, 
And  the  surf  that  drips  in  tears. 

The  hard  turmoil  of  the  pitiless  sea 
Turns  the  pebble  to  beauteous  gem. 

They  who  escape  the  agony 
Miss  also  the  diadem. 


633  THE  POETK  OF  MAINE. 


Charles  Chase  Lord,  second  child  and  first  son  of  Charles  and  Sarah  (Hubbard)  Lord, 
was  born  in  South  Berwick,  July  7,  1841,  being  of  the  seventh  generation  in  direct 
descent  from  Capt.  Nathan  Lord,  who  is  said  to  have  settled  in  Kittery  in  1G52.  "When 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  was  a  young  child,  his  father  moved  to  New  Hampshire,  resid 
ing  first  at  New-market,  and  afterward  at  Hoykinton.  Charles  C.,  in  early  life,  evinced 
an  inclination  to  intellectual  pursuits,  but  imperfect  health  prevented  the  more  extended 
jjreparatory  course  of  study  he  might  otherwise  have  passed.  In  earlier  manhood  he 
devoted  himself  to  the  Christian  ministry,  but  did  not  find  the  vocation  congenial:  in 
later  years  he  has  mainly  been  occupied  with  journalistic  and  literary  pursuits.  Mr. 
Lord  has  written  numerous  short  poems  upon  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  but  mostly  senti- 
uiental,  religious  or  mystical. 

DIRIGO. 

(A  SERIO-COMIC   IDYL.) 

The  slanting  shadow  of  the  pine, 

The  placid  lake  and  sparkling  bay, 
The  hill  and  vale,  express  the  line, 

I  guide,  direct,  or  lead  the  way. 

From  the  dead  slumber  of  the  year,     * 
When  winter's  night  is  dumb  and  chill, 

Bright  spring  awakes,  with  songs  of  cheer, 
And  leads  her  train,  to  life  fulfil. 

From  desk,  and  bench,  and  bonded  street, 

The  eager  throng  and  restless  band, 
In  thankful  haste,  direct  their  feet 

Where  pleasure  crowns  the  smiling  land. 

Where  pleasant  waters  lave  the  shore, 

And  fair  winds  fill  the  inland  sails, 
And  deer  the  fragrant  woods  explore, 

No  guide  deceives,  no  prospect  fails. 

Quick  freshness  leads  the  crimson  wave 

Back  to  the  pallid  cheek  and  brain, 
And  care,  once  longing  for  the  grave 

Of  time,  ignores  its  former  pain. 

Then  thought  directs  its  eye  to  scan, 

With  skill  that  proves  its  subtle  ken,, 
The  process  of  the  wondrous  plan 

That  nature  works  in  plastic  men, 

And  sees  how  spirits  blithe  are  led 

In  fields  so  green  and  lights  so  fair. 
And  marks  the  famished  senses  fed 

On  fats  of  water,  earth  and  air. 


CHARLES  CHASE  LORD.  653 


Thus  comprehension  swift  reviews, 
By  guidance  apprehension  shows 
How  each  true  son  of  Maine  renews 
His  self  and  soul,  despite  his  woes, 

Till,  life  conserved  within  her  bounds, 

Her  faithful  children,  day  by  day, 
While  each  exultant  theme  redounds, 
Thrive,  flourish,  spread,  and  lead  the  way. 

A  LOVE  SONG. 

Sweet  love,  who  listens  to  the  lays 
My  captive  heart  with  rapture  sings, 

My  transport  grateful  homage  pays 
Before  the  shrine  from  which  it  springs. 

Bright  dews  exhale  and  seek  the  skies 
From  which  they  came;  by  subtle  force, 

The  tributes  of  my  verse  arise 
In  aspiration  to  their  source. 

When  my  fond  strain  in  thee  awakes 

Some  blissful  theme  thy  thoughts  prolong, 

Of  crowning  joy  my  soul  partakes, — 
I  give  thee  back  thy  own  sweet  song. 


MY  SHIP. 
My  ship  is  on  the  tranquil  sea; 

Upon  the  strand 

I  watching  stand, 
While  fair  winds  waft  her  safe  to  me. 

Like  a  bright  bird  she  skims  the  main; 

With  lustre  decked, 

Her  sails  reflect 
The  day  in  white  without  a  stain. 

Far  out  to  sea  my  vision  peers 

To  this  sweet  prize, 

That  hither  flies,* 
While  hope  commingles  smiles  and  tears, 

•I  wonder  if  a  soul,  intent 

On  certain  wealth 

And  steadfast  health 
Of  spirit,  e'er  could  circumvent 


654  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

9 

The  torrent  surging  in  his  breast; 
From  boundless  deeps, 
He  smiles  and  weeps 
Who  hails  some  long-delaying  rest. 

I  eannot  see  the  worth  that  teems 

Within  her  store, 

As  to  the  shore 
My  ship  holds  on;  as  one  who  dreams, 

Entranced  by  some  mysterious  art, 

My  thoughts  divine 

No  sure  design; 
I  read  her  mission  in  my  heart.  ' 

My  ship  is  freighted  with  a  joy, 

To  crown  my  days 

With  thankful  praise, 
And  give  each  nobler  thought  employ, 

And  each  ideal  theme  release, 

And,  where  the  heart 

Has  felt  a  smart, 
Provide  the  balm  that  heals'.with  peace. 

Kind  friends,  grieve  not  when  you  discern 

That  I,  in  deed 

Nor  word,  give  heed 
To  cares  in  which  you  toil  and  yearn — 

With  you  in  doubts  refuse  to  roam  : 

My  heart  addressed 

To  comfort  blest, 
I'm  waiting  till  my  ship  comes  home. 


jjdwin 


Edwin  Ruthven  Brings  was  born  iu  Woodstock,  Oxford  County,  Me.,  Oct.  22.  1841. 
Received  a  common-school  education.  Commenced  writing  lor  the  prasfl  when  rJJUen 
years  old,  and  from  1S5G  to  1S7(>  had  over  two  hundred  poems  published  in  Maine  and 
Massachusetts  papers  and  magazines.  Since  187G  his  whole  time  has  been  devoted  to  the 
editing  of  puzzle  departments,  and  tfie  column  of  ".Mystifications"  in  the  Jortland 
Transcript  has  been  conducted  by  him  piuce  .April  1,  lb«5.  "Maine  has  always  I  ten  his 
Louie. 

MY  TREASURES. 

My  wealth  is  not  in  notes  and  bonds, 
Nor  stocks  in  trade,  nor  fertile  lands, 


ED  WIN  JS  UTH  YEN  B BIGGS.  655 

Nor  gold  and  silver  in  a  safe, 

'Secured  by  locks  and  iron  bands; 
My  treasures  are  exempt  from  tax, 

Except  what  I  may  freely  pay, 
And  every  dollar  I  thus  expend, 
Pays  me  good  interest  every  day. 

My  wealth  is  not  in  anything 

To  tempt  a  midnight  burglar  here, 
Though  all  my  treasures  on  this  earth 

Are  in  my  house,  I've  nought'to  fear; 
I  often  leave  them  during  the  day, 

But  when  descend  the  shades  of  Anight, 
I  haste  with  joy  unto  my  home 

To  guard  them  till  the  morrow's  light. 

My  treasures, — source  of  all  my  joys, — 

The  wealth  that  dicers  me  on  through  life, — 
I'll  tell  to  you  by  naming  first 

My  gentle,  loving,  blue-eyed  wife! 
Within  our  home,  with  shouts  of  glee, 

A  little  girl  and  boy  do  play, 
The  former  five  years  old  last  month, 

The  latter  one  year  old  to-day. 

These  are  my  treasures,  only  three, 

And  yet  I'm  richer  than  a  king, 
And  happy  as  the  wild,  free  birds 

That  in  the  summer  sweetly  sing; 
What  though  the  winds  of  autumn  blow, 

And  all  without  is  cold  and  drear, 
Within  is  light,  and  warmth,  and  love, 

While  I  am  with  my  treasures  here. 


OLD  FRIENDS. 

Like  sonic  fair  vision  in  a  dream 
The  past  dotli  oft  before  me  rise, 

Revealing  childhood's  happy  home, 
And  friends  I  then  did  highly  prize; 

Their  faces  now  are  dimly  seen, 
,  More  dim  as  years  do  onward  How, 

But  I  shall  never  quite  forget 
The  dear  old  friends  of  long  ago. 

How  often  in  my  wildwood  home, 
My  father's  cottage  on  the  hill, 


65(5  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


I  used  to  play  at  hide-and-seek 
With  Clara,  Roscoe,  Bess  and  Will; 

And  Clara  oft  would  laughing  say 
I  was  her  darling  little  beau, — 

She  was  the  dearest  one  of  all 
The  many  friends  of  long  ago. 

Divided  in  those  happy  days, 

And  scattered  all  the  wide  world  o'er, 
My  eyes,  with  age  now  growing  dim, 

On  earth  will  never  see  them  more; 
But  far  above  the  gloomy  clouds, 

Where  cold  storm-winds  can  never  blow, 
I  hope  to  meet,  to  kiss  and  greet, 

Those  dear  old  friends  of  long  ago. 


dtv<ird  j^  jtitleont. 


E.  L.  Hideout  was  born  in  Benton,  Me.,  in  1841.  After  leaving  school  he  was  engaged  in 
mercantile  pursuits  in  Bangor,  and  also  in  Dexter,  Me.,  writing  occasionally  for  publica 
tion  during  those  years.  In  1878  became  editor  of  the  Hotisehol't  Journal,  published  by 
E.  G.  Hideout  &  Co.,  Montreal,  P.  Q.  In  1830  E.  G.  II.  &  Co.  removed  to  New  York  City, 
and  there  published  the  Journal  and  also  the  Hottwliold  Guest  jliayazine,  and  Hideout's 
Monthly  Magazine,  with  all  of  which  he  has  since  been  connected,  as  also  Th.?.  New  York 
Waverly,  published  by  his  brother,  E.  G.  Hideout,  under  the  name  of  the  Waverly  Pub 
lishing  Co. 


PYGMALION'S  STATUE. 

Pygmalion,  a  sculptor  of  the  ancient  city  of  Tyre,  made  a  statue  of  which  he  became 
go  enamored  that  Venus,  on  his  entreaty,  give  it  life.  OLD  MYXHOLOOY. 

You  have  read  the  mythical  story 

Of  that  famous  statue  of  yore, 
That  Pygmalion  carved  from  the  Tyrian  stone 
So  faultless  and  fair  that  its  beauty  shone 

Like  a  gleam  from  some  brighter  shore. 

You  have  heard  how  the  sculptor's  heart  was  moved 

By  the  marvel  his  hands  had  wrought;— 
And  how  he  besought  the  "Goddess  of  Love" 
To  warm  it  to  life  by  a  breath  from  above, 

And  give  it  the  power  of  thought. 

The  boon  was  granted:  the  marble  breathed 

Replete  with  all  womanly  grace;— 
And  close  to  his  breast  he  clasped  the  bride 
He  had  won  from  the  rugged  mountain  side, 

And  his  soul  was  filled  with  peace. 
****** 

Last  night  I  saw  the  legend  reversed, — 
For  a  woman  seemed  turned  to  stone, 


CAROLINE  DA  VENPOR T  8  WAN.  657 


'Neath  the  glance  of  one  who  stood  at  her  side 
And  gazed  upon  her  with  fondest  pride, 
As  the  song  and  the  dance  went  on. 

O  marvelous  power  of  human  love  1 

That  could  cause  the  marble  to  thrill 
With  all  the  delights  that  mortals  have  known, 
And  yet  could  change  the  woman  to  stone,— 
Like  that  from  the  fabled  hill. 


Caroline  jjaveitftort 

Caroline  Davenport  Swan  is  a  resident  of  Gardiner,  Me.,  where  she  was  born  Dec. 
2,  1841.  She  belongs  to  one  of  the  "old  families"  of  that  town,  her  two  grandfathers 
having  been  among  its  early  settlers.  Her  home,  known  as  "the  old  Swan  place."  is 
quite  picturesque,  with  its  spacious  lawns,  shaded  by  elms  and  commanding  a  view  of 
the  Kennebec  River.  Educated  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  at  the  celebrated  school  of  Prof. 
Agassiz,  she  has  attained  a  wide  culture,  increased  by  advantages  of  foreign  travel.  Her 
artistic  taste  is  extremely  delicate,  and  she  has  spent  much  time  with  brush  and  pencil. 
Asa  teacher,  her  influence  has  been  widely  felt;  having  been  connected  for  many  years 
with  the  Boston  Society  to  Encourage  Studies  at  Home,  and  conducting  by  correspond 
ence  its  Shakespearian  Department.  At  one  period  she  taught  French  and  English,  at 
St.  Catherine's  Hall,  in  Augusta,  and  has  trained  many  private  pupils  in  her  native  city. 
In  literature  she  is  favorably  known  :?s  a  contributor  of  stories  and  verse  to  the  various 
papers  and  magazines.  The  poems  appended  will  serve  to  give  some  idea  of  her  merits 
in  this  direction.  The  first  given  appeared  in  the  Veiv  York  Independent, 

ENTRANCE. 

At  the  world's  great  castle-gate 

A  beggar  cries. 

"  To  wealth  and  state  we  open  wide, 
To  the  worldly-wise  in  purple  pride," 

A  voice  replied. 
"  Alack!"  said  she,  "for  the  loving  heart 

And  naught  beside." 

Expect  int,  a'c  a  mightier  gate, 

The  worldly-wise 
Stand  waiting  by  its  golden  bars, 
Till  wonder-pearls  and  gleaming  stars 

Swing  open  wide 
For  her  who  brings  the  loving  heart 

And  naught  beside. 

COLOR-FIRES. 

September  kindles  the  flame 

From  an  August  SUTI; 
A  burning-glass  in  her  snow-white  hand, 


658  THE  t'OKTS  OF  M 


Imperial  grace  of  wide  command, 

Lo!  the  blaze  begun! — 
And  Love,  he  watches  the  stately  dame; 
His  fires  are  kindled  much  the  same. 

October  feedeth  the  flame,-— 

How  it  laughs  and  roars! — 
With  ruddy  maples,  and  elms  that  burn, 
And  orange  masses  of  sunlit  fern, 

His  golden  stores. 

But  Love  remembers  a  fiercer  claim; 
''My  fires,"  quoth  he,  "put  thine  to  shame. 

November  buries  the  coals 

I' the  sodden  grass. 
His  tremulous  fingers  all  a-cold, 
He  shivers  across  the  silvery  wold, 

As  shadows  pass. 

And  Love  is  flying!  —A  sweet  bell  tolls. — 
O  heap  of  ashes !  O  weary  souls ! 


VITA  NUOVA. 

I  wandered  sad  within  my  garden-ground; 
"My  one  white  rose  is  dying,  day  by  day," 
I  whispered  mournfully,  and  turned  away 
From  its  bare  stalks:— the  plant  was  love-encrowned. 
Long  absence  followed;  yet  the  years  crept  round 
To  my  return.     A  magical  display 
Of  roses  bade  me  welcome.     Each  brown  spray 
Shone  silver-white,  each  thorny  stem  had  found 
Its  destined  crown.     "  O  root  and  bloom,"  I  cried, 
Spirit  and  clny,  transmutable!    How  plain 
That  life,  once  lived,  must  put  on  life  again, 
The  type  celestial!    Thus  shall  it  betide 
With  us,  when,  sudden,  from  our  earthly  gloom 
The  grand  white  flower  of  Heaven  shall  flash  and  bloom. 


jifefaon  (j^ondon. 


Dr.  Amasa  $.  Condon  was  born  in  Penobscot,  Me.,  Dec.  22.  1S11,  and  is  of  Scotch-Irish 
extraction.  His  father  died  in  IVnobscot,  ;i  few  years  ago,  at  a  very  advanced  age, 
greatly  respected  by  all  who  knew  him.  The  mother  is  still  living,  in  the  full  possession. 
of  all  her  mental  facultio*,  at  th.--  u:ius:i  il  ;i','  •  or'  Si.  An  is  is  e  irly  life  wa<  spent  oi» 
the  farm  in  summer,  but  in  winter  he  went  through  the  woods  to  school,  nearly  two  miles 
away.  A  writer  in  the  vnmvort.h  American,  speaking  of  him  at  this  period,  says:  "  Amasa 
is  remembered  by  the  older  residents  hero  as  a  young  lad  who  represented  the  best  type- 


A  At  AS  A  STETSON  CONDON.  659 


of  the  good-natured  sociable,  self-expanding,  indomitable  Yankee."  Ho  entered  the 
East  Maine  Conference  Seminary,  Bttcksport.  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  where  he  remained 
until  the  breaking  out  of  the  Rebellion.  April  23,  1361,  he  enlisted  in  Co.  E,  (5:h  Maine 
Regiment  of  Volunteers,  which,  was  made  up  mostly  from  the  students  of  the  Seminary. 
At  the  battle  of  Williamsburg,  Va.,  he  received  iniuries  from  which  he  has  never  fully 
recovered.  Mustered  out  of  the  service,  July  17,  18(12.  He  is  an  active  member  of  the 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  and  his  pen  has  recorded,  both  in  prose  and  song,  many  of 
the  stirring'incidenls  of  the  war.  Recovering,  in  a  measure,  his  health,  he  returned  to 
the  East  Maine  Seminary,  and  on  graduation  selected  medicine  as  a  profession,  and  read 
for  three  years,  after  two  years  of  diligent  preparation  in  Maine,  -with  Dr.  Marcus  Shel 
don,  of  Iowa.  After  a  successful  examination  at  tin;  University  of  Michigan,  where  he 
remained  two  years,  he  returned  to  Iowa  and  opened  an  office.  In  January,  1875,  he  was 
appointed  one'of  the  surgeons  of  the  Union  Pacific  R.  R.,  with  headquarters  at  Ogden, 
Utah,  where  he  has  since  resided  and  practiced  with  great  success.  As  a  literary  man 
he  has  also  had  marked  success.  His  first  printed  poem,  when  but  a  child,  appeared  in 
Zion's  ffarald,  and  brought  him  an  autograph  letter  from  Dr.  Haven,  the  prince  of  crit 
ics.  In  18SG  Dr.  Condon  Visited  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  and  wrote  several  very  interest 
ing  papers  in  regard  to  the  Kilauea  volcano,  then  in  eruption.  Before  leaving  he  was 
tendered  a  banquet  at  Honolulu,  by  one  of  the  Royal  Princes,  which  the  King  himself 
attended.  In  the  early  autumn  of  1837.  Dr.  Condon  revisited  his  old  home  in  Maine, 
after  an  absence  of  many  years,  from  thence  visiting  Quebec,  also  the  home  of  Whittier, 
the  old  Webster  homestead,  and  places  made  memorable  by  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  to 
glean  more  material  for  his  prolific  pen.  He  has  written  many  poems,  and  numerous 
sketches,  some  of  which  have  been  widely  copied.  A  volume  of  his  poems  will  soou 
appear. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

Read  before  the  "  Tom  Reed"  Republican  Club  of  Ogden,  Utah,  on  the  anniversary  of 
Lincoln's  birthday,  Feb.  12,  1883. 

COLUMBIA'S  PROPHECY,  FEB.  12,  1809. 

Somewhere  to-day  in  dolor  and  want, 
Where  tears  are  plenty  and  bread  is  scarce, 

And  prowling  ghosts  from  a  luckless  haunt 
Make  home  a  mockery  and  life  a  farce ; 

Like  the  dissonant  wail  from  a  tuneless  chord, 

There  the  first  low  wail  of  a  child  shall  be  heard ; 

And  the  large  asking  eyes  full  of  baby  awe, 
That  will  question  the  cheer  of  the  wretched  den, 

Shall  behold,  rising  out  of  this  cradle  of  straw, 
A  temple  ornate  with  affections  of  men; 

And  when  my  bright  stars  shall  be  paling  their  hue, 

Then  his  hand  shall  recast  the  whole  field  of  blue. 

THE    FULFILMENT,  APRIL   14,  1865. 

Let  cunning  lips  that  are  crafty  in  speech, 

Praise  "My  Royal  Lord"  and  his  Lady  proud  ; 
Let  pliant  tongues  loquacious  preach 

Of  the  Baron  bold  and  his  noble  blood; 
Let  Knights  call  the  names  of  their  fathers  up, 

And  toast  them  with  jeweled  lance  in  rest, 
But  with  humble  hand  I  will  raise  a  cup 

To  one  that  is  greater  than  their  guest. 


(;60  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

We  will  pour  from  a  lip  in  the  tangled  horn,* 

A  milk-white  draught  that  the  Crete  adored, 
To  celebrate  a  patriot  born 

In  a  treeiiailed  box  of  rough  deal  board ; 
We  will  drink  to  him  whose  infant  eyes 

Looka.l  first  on  clou  Is  of  a  leaisn  hue, 
That,  hanging  dense  in  his  morning  skies, 

Hid  the  Orient  beams  of  the  sun  from  view. 

Till  the  climax  that  finished  a  glorified  life, 

These  furrowing  sorrows  he  patiently  bore; 
And  the  long,  painful  years  of  a  crucial  strife 

Scarce  added  a  line  to  the  horologue's  score; 
Like  a  tell-tale  map  were  his  lineaments  cast, 

In  a  mold  where  sufferings  had  graved  their  trace; 
And/ always  pursuing,  this  ghost  of  the  past 

Told  the  story  pathetic  on  his  face. 

But  the  boy  crept  out  of  poverty's  bed, 

To  follow  the  sibyl's  magic  wand; 
And  always  thereafter  ,  where  duty  led, 

They  journeyed  together,  hand  in  hand; 
Thou  canst  trace  the  stars  in  the  ebon  night, 

As  they  answer  the  beck  of  some  hidden  force; 
But  how  little  thou  know'st  of  the  subtle  might 

That  drives  them  along  in  their  silent  course. 

So  the  playful  sprite  weaves  a  silken  net. 

But  its  meshes  are  strong  as  a  web  of  steel; 
At  a  turn  in  the  path  the  snare  is  set 

Where  no  vigilant  eye  can  its  presence  reveal; 
A  captive  thenceforth  in  the  fairy  train, 

Where  censure  condemns  or  glad  salvos  ring; 
But  ever  he  follows  the  tractile  chain, 

A  beggar  to-day,  but  to-morrow— a  king. 

The  hills  that  grew  brown  in  a  bitter  breath 

That  sifted  through  clouds  the  winged  snow, 
Will  sprinkle  with  blossoms  this  realm  of  death, 

When  the  south  wind  coaxes  the  buds  to  blow; 
So  genius,  if  fettered,  will  languish  in  gloom, 

Till  a  herald  proclaims  the  appointed  day; 
Then  'twill  burst  the  strong  door  of  its  sullen  tomb, 

If  some  angel  but  roll  the  stone  away. 

But  the  tide  of  events  flows  white  from  the  shore, 
To  bear  him  away  on  its  stormy  breast; 

*Horn  of  the  goat  that  snckleil  Jupiter. 


AMASA  STETSON  CONDON.  661 


O  proud  Illinois,  he  is  thine  no  more ! 

He  belongs  to  the  world  as  thy  sacred  bequest; 
There's  the  altar  prepared  for  this  gift  of  thy  love, 

And  the  fire,  and  the  dirge,  and  the  buffeting  throng; 
But  only  the  Father  in  heaven  above 

Can  fathom  this  bounty  to  outrage  and  wrong. 

But  the  time  is  at  hand  when  this  man  will  be  tried, 

As  gold  in  a  furnace  that 's  heated  seven-fold ; 
If  the  metal  be  base  we  will  cast  it  aside, 

But  fire  shall  determine  which  is  dross,  which  is  gold; 
Let  the  cynic  behold,  for  the  triaUbegins, 

And  the  test  is  of  wisdom  and  courage  combined; 
If  his  arm  be  of  reed  he  will  fail;  if  "he  wins, 

He  's  the  stuff  that  makes  gods  of  mankind. 

On  the  tempest-torn  main,  in  the  offing  out  yonder, 

The  waves  clasp  the  sky  and  sink  down^with  a  roar, 
And,  rolling  together  with  tumult  and  thunder, 

Break  white  o'er  the  sea-wall  that  circles  the  shore; 
Like  the  wing  of  a  bird  on  a  faint  rim  of£sky, 

Or  the  shadow  of  Hope  we  see  in  a  dream, 
The  proud  Ship  of  State  shakes  her  canvas  on  high, 

Defying  the  storm  and  the  lightning's  red  gleam. 

But  pirates  have  shifted  the  buoys  from  the  bar 

To  the  land-girted  harbor,  as  signals  of  woe; 
And  pirates  are  coaxing  where  th'  gray  breakers  are, 

And  the  ship  has  a  deck-load  of  pirates  below; 
But  the  Lincoln  that  slept  in  a  cradle  of  straw, 

Stood  brave  on  the  bridge  with  trumpet  in  hand; 
And,  peering  through  darkness  and  tempest,  he  saw 

The  only  safe  roadstead  that  led  to  the  land. 
*-#•##*#•* 

But  away  with  these  symbols  that  baffle  my  muse, 
And  tangle  the  gait  of  a  smooth-flowing  song; 

So,  to  happy-eyed  Metaphor  waving  a  truce, 
On  sturdy  Pegasus  I'll  gallop  along. 

*  *  '  *  *  *  #  * 

At  a  snug  little  farm-house  that  stands  on  the  hill, 

A  widow  grief-stricken  bequeaths  her  last  son; 
And  a  fair  girl  will  wait  at  the  tryst  by  the'mill, 

Whose  white  lips  will  whisper  "Good-bye;"  and  he's  gone; 
So  the  villager's  hope  and  the  rich  city's  pride, 

With  music  that  chases  the  echoes  afar, 
Float  down^the  broad  streets  in  a  living  tide, 

To  join  in  the  glory  and  murder  of  war. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


How  graphic  the  picture  that  drops  from  a  pen 

While  a-painting  of  scenes  from  those  long  years  of  dread, 
From  the  fear  in  the  souls  of  the  children  of  men, 

As  they  read  the  long  lists  of  the  sacrificed  dead;— 
From  the  dews  of  the  South  turned  to  red  showers  of  rain 

That  guttered  the  turf  on  the  rolling  lea, — 
From  the  crimson-lipped  bud  on  the  conscious  plain, — 

From  the  grave  where  Doath  held  his  wild  jubilee! 

In  yon  pretty  cottage  contentment  once  reigned, 

And  all  the  bright  dreams  that  thrift  could  inspire, 
Now  a  prey  in  the  grasp»of  demons  unchained, 

And  molting  away  in  the  hot  tongues  of  fire; 
The  playground  once  sacred  to  childhood's  retreat, 

With  its  carpet  of  green  that  lay  soft  011  the  earth, 
Now  trod  to  a  mire  by  vandal-shod  feet, 

And  still  as  the  grave  are  the  voices  of  mirth. 

There's  the  far-reaching  lawn;  in  the  arbor  below 

Was  the  rope-braided  gig  that  swept  close  by  the  spring; 
But  the  leaves  have  grown  black  in  the  wrath  of  the  foe, 

And  a  halter  is  made  of  the  children's  swing; 
The  slow-throbbing  drum,  and  the  fife's  wailing  cry, 

And  the  voice  of  a  wretch  in  his  brief  epilogue, 
Proclaim  the  last  act  in  the  fate  of  a  spy, 

Who  faces  the  doom  of  a  dishonored  dog. 

There  the  smooth-flowing  sea  has  extinguished  its  foam, 

And  soft  on  its  bosom  the  night  tapers  burn; 
While  the  sailor-boy  dreams  of  his  sweetheart  and  homo, 

And  the  friends  of  his  youth  that  await  his  return; 
But  a  black  skulking  shadow  through  darkness  less  black, 

Like  a  lire-breathing  courser,  ploughs  over  the  main; 
And  swift  as  a  sleuth-hound  that  is  hot  on  the  track, 

Submerges  its  prey  in  a  white-foaming  grave. 

And  thus  through  the  years  burned  the  passions  of  hate, 

As  if  Satan's  new  reign  on  the  earth  had  begun; 
Inciting  to  murder  the  filial  ingrate, 

And  guiding  the  knife  to  the  throat  of  the  son; 
Braiding  halos  of  flame  from  a  blistered  sky, 

Whose  fires  put  to  shame  the  mad  rocket's  light; 
And  the  iron  messengers  screaming  by 

To  gash  the  red  earth  in  their  random  flight. 

But  true  to  his  trust,  and  with  "Right"  for  his  guide, 
Mid  contention  at  home  and  confusion  abroad, 

He  held  on  his  way  till  the  foe's  humbled  pride 
Had  thrown  down  the  altars  set  up  to  their  God; 


MARY  A.  HAMLIX.  663 


But  how  oft,  when  his  own  heart  was  bursting  with  care, 
Did  he  pause  an  encouraging  word  to  bestow;— 

To  patiently  heed  a  suppliant's  prayer, 
And  speak  peace  to  a  mind  distracted  with  woe. 

But  Peace  spread  her  wings  to  the  gaze  of  the  world, 

And  the  stars  sang  again  in  the  angels'  employ; 
While  the  turbulent  banners  of  discord  were  furled, 

And  the  laughing  sky  rocked  with  hosannas  of  joy. 
When  the  battlefield  buzzards  had  stilled  their  hoarse  cry, 

And  the  spirit  of  hate  had  fettered  its  rage; 
Then  a  blow  struck  him  down  like  a  bolt  from  the  sky! 

O  God,  could  I  cancel  this  blot  from  my  page ! 

But  the  record  is  made,  and  the  world  knows  the  rest:— 

How  it  smothered  in  flowers  the  grief  on  his  bier, 
And  mourned  him,  of  men  the  truest  and  best, 

That  had  lived  out  the  span  of  a  mortal's  career; 
Yes,  the  record  is  made,  and  this  man  has  been  tried 

As  gold  in  a  furnace  that's  heated  seven-fold; 
But^the  urn  holds  no  dross  to  throw  idly  aside, 

For  fire  hath  determined  the  whole  mass  is  gold. 


a/v/  M.  jjtanilin. 


Mary  A.'  Hnmlin  was  born  in  Gorham,  Me.,  Jan.  22,  1842,  her  parents  removing  to 
Jackson  when  she  was  about  six  years  of  age.  Her  mother's  early  days  were  spent  in 
Portland,  and  she  sang  for  some  time  in  the  choir  of  the  Christian  Church;  later  she 
returned  to  the  old  home  in  Gorham  to  care  for  her  aged  and  blind  father.  Mary's  father, 
J.  M.  Hamlin,  was  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  first  settlers  of  Gorham.  Miss  llamlin 
designates  her  little  poems  as  "  Songs  in  the  !N'ight,"  the  expressions  of  a  heart  under 
the  training  of  a  Divine  Hand.  She  has  a  spontaneous  sympathy  with  others  who  are 
passing  under  the  cloud;. her  poems  are  the  mementoes  of  the  "Marah  Wells"  and 
"  Elim  Ways"  of  life.  In  1874  she  took  charge  of  the  JHrhio  Knral,  of  Baugor.  and  has 
•written  stories  and  other  prose  articles.  She  is  now  preparing  a  poetical  work  for  publi 
cation. 

GLEANINGS. 

*'  And  she  went  and  came,  and  gleaned  in  the  field  after  the  reapers."— Ruth  ii:  3. 
'Tis  not  for  me  with  zealous  care 

To  toil  for  earthly  praise : 
A  little  here,  a  little  there, 

Along  life's  devious  ways, 
With  what  He  gives  to  joyful  go 
And  seed  beside  all  waters  sow. 

Nor  may  my  arm  the  sickle  wield, 

WitlT reapers  brave  and  strong, 
To  gather  in  the  ripened  field 

With  shout  of  harvest  song; 


664  TlIK  POKTS  OF  MA1XE. 


But  where  brave  reapers  once  have  been, 
The  Master  gives  me  leave  to  glean. 

Of  this  not  selfishly  to  make 

A  sheaf  for  earthly  store; 
But  what  He  gives  to  gladly  take 

And  use  and  glean  for  more. 
Thankful  when  golden  sheaves  I  see, 
That  this  sweet  task  was  left  for  me. 

I  may  not  reap,  I  may  not  bind, 
The  sheaves  of  ripened  wheat; 

But  should  some  reaper  fall  behind, 
Faint  from  the  toil  and  heat, 

The  frail,  veiled  gleaner  there  may  bring 

A  cooling  draught  from  bubbling  spring. 

And  as  I  glean  from  day  to  day, 

I  yet  perchance  may  see 
Some  rare,  ripe  cluster  on  the  way 

Left  purposely  for  me. 
Gladly  I'd  toil  from  morn  till  night, 
But  to  find  favor  in  His  sight. 

I  may  not  join  the  joyous  key, 
With  those  who  bind  the  grain; 

But  as  the  song  floats  back  to  me, 
I'll  chant  the  sweet  refrain. 

And  thus  my  note  of  praise  I'll  yield 

To  the  rich  Master  of  the  field. 


Emma  Coombs— the  initial  "  J  "  being  only  borrowed  from  that  of  a  friend,  and  inserted 
with  her  own  as  her  pen  initial — Was  born  in  D.unariscotta.  where  she  resided  and 
attended  school  until  she  was  seventeen  years  of  age.  At  irregular  intervals  she  also 
attended  school  at  Lincoln  Academy,  Newcastle.  She  commenced  the  study  of  Latin  at 
twelve  years  of  age,  and  at  fourteen  was  reading  Virgil's  JSueid.  Soon  after  she  removed 
to  Bath.  Her  first  poem  was  an  obituary  on  the  death  of  a  schoolmate,  and  was  written 
at  the  early  age  of  nine  years.  When  eighteen  years  old  Miss  Coombs  was  prostrated  by 
a  severe  and  long-continued  illness,  and  during  the  period  of  invalidism  wrote  several 
poems  for  the  Portland,  Transcript  and  other  papers.  Bath  has  baen  her  horn 3  for  the 
past  twenty  years.  For  the  past  six  years  .\Iiss  Coombs  has  given  har  attention  princi 
pally  to  art,  which  is  the  vocation  of  her  choice,  but  still  occasionally  writes  both  in 
prose  and  verse. 


GROWING  OLD. 
Gray  hairs  ?  so  soon  ?     'T  was  but  yesterday 

I  complacently  smoothed  my  locks  of  gold; 
Gray  hairs,  they  say,  are  a  sign  of  age — 

Can  it  be  true  I  am  growing  old  ? 


VIRGIL  VIRALDINI  TWITCH  ELL.  (565 

And  surely  enough,  my  face  does  wear 

An  expression  for  youth  too  wise  and  cold; 
A  prophetic  wrinkle  is  in  my  brow, 

And  1  see  in  my  eyes  my  story  all  told. 

And  now  I  review  it,  how  long  ago, 

Since  in  that  spring-time  soft  and  mild 
I  first  discovered  with  pleased  surprise 

The  face  of  a  maiden,  instead  of  a  child. 

What  a  sweet  long  time  ago  it  was, 

That  I  looked  through  such  hopeful,  expectant  eyes, 
That  I  dreamed  such  wayward,  fanciful  dreams 

Beneath  such  changeable  April  skies! 

O  beautiful  youth,  hast  thou  left  me  so  soon  ? 

Thy  kisses  scarce  cold  on  cheek  and  brow  ? 
With  nil  thy  promises  unfulfilled — 

Unheeded  and  broken  thy  softest  vow  ? 

Will  the  sweet  south  breezes  never  again 

Whisper  a  tale  in  my  waiting  ears  ? 
Will  the  daisies  and  violets  never  again 

Tell  me  the  fortunes  of  future  years  ? 

Will  the  robins  and  blue-birds  sing  no  more 

Their  tenderest  songs  as  they  pass  me  by  ? 
And  the  honey-bees  bear  no  message  to  me 

As  about  me  on  gossamer  wings  they  fly  ? 

For  answer,  the  south  wind  comes  to  my  ear 
With  whispers  no  more,  but  with  gentle  moan; 

The  dreamy  hum  of  the  bee  is  still — 
The  flowers  are  dead  and  the  birds  are  flown. 

The  daisies  and  violets  lie  dank  at  my  feet, 

Nor  lift  as  I  pass  them  each  gentle  head; 
Of  the  future  no  more  will  they  breathe  to  me — 

The  book  may  be  closed,  for  the  story  is  read. 

Farewell,  forever,  O  beautiful  youth ! 

In  the  sigh  of  each  breeze  I  can  hear  thy  knell, 
With  all  thy  mystical,  golden  dreams, — 

Farewell,  O  beautiful  youth,  farewell! 


ffc'rgi/  yimldini  jj^witchqlL 

Editor  Twitchell,  of  the  Gorham  Movntaineer,  was  born  in  Bethel,  Me.,  June  27, 
1842,  where,  as  one  of  his  facetious  friends  remarked,  "he  successfully  sang  the 
'Squall.'"  Virgil  received  his  education  at  the  town  school  and  Gould's  Academy  at 
Bethel  until  he  was  16  years  old,  when  he  took  a  notion  to  become  a  photographer,  and 


44- 


6ft)  THE  POETS  OF  MA1XE. 


practiced  that  art  in  Bethel,  Portland  and  Boston  for  several  years.  In  1863  he  enlisted 
in  the  .Maine  infantry,  hat  not  passing  the  medical  examination,  he  subsequently  got  a 
position  iii  the  sanitary  commission,  and  was  stationed  at  City  Point,  Va.,  until  the  bat 
tle  of  Petersburg!!.  He  \v;m  thon  ordered  to  Richmond,  ami  remained  there  till  the  close 
of  the  war.  Later,  he  worked  in  the  offices  of  the  Daily  Star  and  Advertiser,  in  Port 
land,  Me.,  for  six  years.  After  a  trip  of  three  months  iii  the  far  West,  where  he  went  to 
regain  his  health,  ho  came  back  to  Portland,  and  was  a  trader  for  two  years.  After  act 
ing  as  clerk  for  three  seasons  in  the  Waumbec  Mouse,  at  .Jefferson.  X.  H.,  he  went  to  Gor- 
ham,  N.  II.,  and,  in  April,  1877,  established  the  Mountaineer,  which  he  still  manages 
ably  and  profitably. 


DON'T  STAB  HIM  IN  THE  BACK. 

If  you  have  a  grudge  against  a  mm— some  fancied  wrong — you  blame, 

Would  it  not  be  far  better  to  face  him  with  the  same, 

Than  to  follow  him  in  silence,  like  a  blood-hound  on  a  track, 

And  when  you  get  him  cornered  to  stab  him  in  the  back? 

Perhaps  you  may  be  sensitive,  and  think  because  you've  erred, 
Your  friend  has  ceased  to  love  you — your  heart  is  strangely  stirred » 
When  you're  the  one  that's  kicking  like  an  enraged  jumping-jack, 
And  before  you  aro  aware  of  it  you've  stabbed  him  in  the  back. 

We  do  not  moan  you've  struck  a  blow  in  anger  or  in  strife, 
With  a  sharp-pointed  dagger  or  a  murderer's  keen  knife, 
But  in  your  exasperation,  by  some  sleight-handed  knack, 
Your  tongue  was  used,  instead  thereof,  to  stab  him  in  the  back. 

If  you  would  be  more  merciful  to  all,  be  kind  and  true, 
You  must  try  to  do  by  others  as  you'd  have  them  do  by  you, 
And  if  a  friend  unthinkingly  should  give  your  nose  a  whack, 
Just  hit  him  square  between  the  eyes — don't  stab  him  in  the  back. 


THE  OLD  FLAX-WHEEL. 

Grandma  sat  there  in  her  old  arm-chair,  humming  her  favorite  tune, 
Her  head  was  white  but  her  face  as  bright  as  a  leafless  rose  in  June ; 
She  tapped  her  heel  as  she  turned  her  reel,  in  a  sing-song  way  so  queer, 
I  can  hear  her  yet,  and  I'll  never  forget,  though  I  live  a  hundred  year, 
The  distaff's  rebound  as  it  turned  around,  and  grandma's  cry,  "Take 

care ! " 
'T  was  always  my  fate,  I  found  too  late,  the  "old  thing"  pulling  my  hair. 

She'd  sit  upright  from  morn  till  night,  nor  think  it  was  a  tax, 
With  toe  and  heel  she'd  turn  the  wheel  and  finger  the  glossy  flax; 
The  old  black  cat  asleep  on  the  mat,  the  clock  so  tall  and  queer 
Its  tick,  tick,  tick,  and  the  wheels1  click,  click,  were  musical  sounds  to 

hear; 

The  fiery  blaze  from  the  fire-placo  made  shadows  on  the  wall 
Of  revolving  reel  and  spinning  wheel,  with  grandma  over  all. 


KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD.  «>7 


Old  grandma,  alas!  has  gone  to  rest,  and  many  long  years  have  flown, 
She's  now  at  rest  among  the  blest,  while  I  to  a  man  have  grown. 
I've  her  old  wheel  here,  to  me  'tis  dear,  I  gaze  on  it  now  with  pride, 
To  me  it's  a  sacred  souvenir  since  the  day  old  grandma  died; 
But,  alas !  it  is  now  a  useless  thing  to  girls  of  this  modern  day, 
Because  they  cannot  learn  to  spin— /or  they  are  not  built  that  tea?/. 


THE  DUDE. 
What  is  nothing  ?  please  to  tell  me, 

If  you  know,  now  don't  be  rude; 
f  would  know  if  out  of  nothing 

Comes  a  something— called  a  dude. 

If  a  dude  is  simply  nothing, 
What  in  thunder  must  he  be  ? 

For  we  cannot  get  a  quotient 
From  a  cypher — don't  you  see  ? 

Did  a  zephyr  plant  a  bubble 

In  the  shadow  of  a  storm  ? 
Was  it  nursed  by  sweet  aroma  ? 

Did  the  rainbow  give  it  form  ? 

Well,  perhaps  there's  something  in  it 
Not  so  strange  when  rightly  viewed — 

Out  of  something  comes—well,  nothing, 
Out  of  nothing  comes— a  dude. 


Miss  Kate  Putnam  Osgood  was  born  in  Fryeburg,  that  old  and  quiet  village,  noted  for 
sending  out  so  many  able  literati  of  both  sexes.  For  a  number  of  years  the  poems  of 
this  author  have  appeared  in  the  best  publications  of  the  day,  both  secular  and  religious, 
and  many  of  her  pieces  have  been  extensively  copied.  She  is  a  sister  of  James  1-t.  Os 
good,  recently  a  book-publisher  in  Boston,  and  now  in  England,  also  a  native  of  Frye 
burg.  Miss  Osgood  resides  near  Boston. 


DKIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 
Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 

He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane; 
One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 

Then  fastened  the  meadow-bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 


C68  THK  POET8  OF  MAINE. 


The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 
And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy!  and  his  father  had  said 

He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go: 
Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 
And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp, 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat. 

With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 
Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 

And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom; 

And  now,  when  the  clouds  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  011  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one: 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle  and  Bess, 
Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass- 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  gloomy  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 

And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again; 
And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 

In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


KA  TE  P UTNA M  OSGOOD.  (569 

MARGARET'S  CHAMBER. 

It  is  a  lofty  turret-room, 
Leaf-bowered,  and  set  about  with  bloom, 
Where,  by  the  lattice,  lurks  the  breeze, 
To  rob,  unseen,  the  searching  bees, 
And  nutter  in  a  petal  wet 
With  honey-dew  to  Margaret. 

It  is  the  falling  of  the  night, 

Yet  in  the  chamber  burns  no  light. 

Scarce  visible  about  the  room 

Vague  forms,  just  shadowed  through  the  gloom : 

Familiar  forms  whereon  is  set 

The  impress  still  of  Margaret. 

There,  from  its  corner,  glimmers  tall 
Her  harp  against  the  western  wall: 
About  the  chords  not  yet  unstrung, 
The  chords  so  late  that  thrilled  and  sung, 
Something  of  sweetness  lingers  yet, 
Left  by  the  touch  of  Margaret. 

A  moonlight  glint,  that  seems  to  shift 
And  play  upon  a  mountain-drift; — 
White-draperied  from  foot  to  head 
The  straight  and  slender  couch  is  spread, 
Beneath  whose  snowy  coverlet 
But  yester-night  slept  Margaret. 

Upon  the  panel  opposite 
A  girl  that  watching  seems  to  sit : 
The  last  faint  gleam  about  the  place 
Lingers  upon  the  pictured  face, 
The  wide  and  wistful  eyes  that  met 
Each  morn  the  eyes  of  Margaret. 

Is  it  a  statue  from  the  wall, 
Broken  from  off  its  pedestal, 
There,  in  the  middle  of  the  room — 
Death  aping  Life  amid  the  gloom  ? 
White  face,  white  form,  so  coldly  set, 
So  strangely  like  to  Margaret ! 

No  statue,  yet  a  thing  of  stone, 
The  form  that  lieth  there  alone ! 
A  stone  that  once  had  warmth  and  breath ; 
Life's  image  frozen  into  death: 
44* 


670  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

The  marble  mold,  in  beauty  set, 
That  yesterday  was  Margaret! 

Come  forth,  and  leave  her  there  to  keep 
Her  soundless,  sightless  trance  of  sleep. 
There,  in  the  falling  of  the  night, 
Shut  in  the  chamber  without  light, 
Shadow  and  silence  round  her  met— 
Death's  fitting  watch  for  Margaret. 

Only  the  moon  her  face  may  see — 
As  calm,  as  cold,  as  pale  as  she ! 
Only  the  breeze  may  whisper  there — 
Mysterious  dweller  of  the  air ! 
Nothing  beside  may  dare  to  set 
A  touch  of  earth  on  Margaret ! 


Albert  tglishu 


Albert  E.  Jones  was  born  in  the  town  of  Weld,  on  the  west  slope  of  Mount  Blue,  Aug. 
J6,  1842.  His  parents  removed  to  Farmington  when  he  was  one  year  of  age,  and  from 
thence  went  to  Salem  when  he  was  four  years  old,  two  years  later  going  to  Phillips. 
After  residing  in  the  latter  place  one  year,  the  family  moved  back  to  Salem.  In  May 
1855,  Albert  went  with  his  parents  to  the  town  of  Strong,  where  he  has  resided  most  01 
the  time  until  1878,  when  he  went  to  Topeka,  Kansas,  his  present  home.  The  following 
poem  from  his  pen  appeared  in  the  Phillips  Phonograph. 


MOUNT  BLUE. 

Beneath  the  mountain's  rugged  slope 
My  eyes  first  saw  the  light,* 

Where  noon-day's  sun  gave  joy  and  hope, 
And  gathering  shadows  told  of  night. 

The  summit  viewed  from  fore  and  aft, 
Majestic  tower  seen  at  sea; 

A  solid  fortress  with  piercing  shaft, — 
Art  fails  to  build  a  dome  like  thee ! 

Thrust  from  the  earth  long  ages  back,     • 
Thy  walls  show  signs  of  wear; 

Of  glaciers  in  their  southern  track, 
Moving  in  darkness,  who  knows  where  ? 

Could  human  eyes  see  past  the  door 
That  guards  thy  wondrous  birth; 

The  mist  of  time  roll  from  the  shore, 
How  grand  thy  rising  from  the  earth! 

*  The  writer  was  born  at  the  foot  of  this  mountain. 


HAEEIETTE  G.  PENNELL.  071 

Piled  high  above,  unmoved  by  blast, 

Thy  form  is  dear  to  me, 
As  in  my  youth  those  years  swift  passed, 

To-day  this  land-mark  still  I  see. 

"On  the  mountain  top  appearing,* 

Lo,  the  sacred  herald  stands," 
Was  sung  in  faith  to  hearts  endearing, 

Its  echoes  wafted  o'er  the  land. 

The  smiling  vale  thy  spire  above, 

A  beacon  may  it  ever  shine, 
Guiding  the  heart  to  home  and  love, 

Mt.  Blue,  I  fondly  call  thee  mine! 


jjnrrietfo  jj.  jjmntll. 

Miss  Harriette  G.  Pennell  was  born  in  Brunswick,  Me.,  and  now  resides  in  the  old  his 
toric  town  of  Salem,  Mass..  on  a  street  named  for  one  of  our  Maine  Poets,  the  distin 
guished  Hawthorne.  Miss  Pennell  has  written  very  acceptably  for  the  columns  of  C'ot- 
tacje  Hearth  Magazine,  the  Boston  Transcript,  the  Boston  Budget,  and  other  literary 
publications. 

BESIDE  THE  SEA. 

'Neath  the  rustling,  spreading  branches, 

Close  beside  the  summer  sea, 
Where  the  waves'  low  whispering  music 

Breathes  its  ceaseless  mystery, 

Gently  o'er  my  slumberous  senses 

Falls  the  distant  church  bells'  chime, 
While  within  the  sheltered  beaches 

Flows  the  tide  in  songs  sublime. 

Round  me  rolls  the  measured  cadence 

Throbbing  o'er  my  brain  and  heart; 
Thronging  memories  gleam  undying, 

Till  they  seem  of  life  a  part ! 

O'er  the  cliffs  the  sun  is  shining, 

And  the  flowers  of  golden  glow 
Wave  their  plumes  of  graceful  beauty 

Where  the  freshening  sea  winds  blow. 


*Many  years  ago  a  great  meeting  was  held  on  the  summit  of  Mt.  Blue,  and  a  hymn 
was  read  and  sung  containing  these  two  lines. 


<>72  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Just  the  same  the  birds  are  singing; 

Just  the  same  the  waters  flow; 
All  around,  beneath,  above  me, 

Strangely  breathes  of  long  ago. 

When  a  gentle  form  was  near  me, 

Sat  beside  the  summer  sea, 
Heard  the  same  soft,  dreamy  music", 

Shared  her  pure,  sweet  thoughts  with  me. 

Now  I  tread  the  tangled  pathway 

All  along  the  wooded  shore, 
Living  o'er  in  silent  sadness 

Glad,  sweet  days  that  come  no  more. 

There's  no  tender  voice  beside  me, 

Still  the  pines  beside  the  sea 
Whisper  of  a  heavenly  spirit, 

Of  the  love  it  brought  to  me. 


THE  OKIOLE. 
Hark,  'tis  the  oriole's  song, 

Sweet,  worshipful,  deep  in  delight; 
There's  a  spell  divine  in  the  radiant  voice, 

Outbreaking  from  morn  till  night! 

O  sweet  in  the  flush  of  dawn 

Comes  the  golden  melody; 
And  for  lonely  shadows  no  place  is  found 

In  the  message  he  sings  to  me ! 

Then  the  voice  like  a  spirit  floats 
And  breathes  on  the  charmed  air; 

Till  the  long  spring  days  more  blissful  seem, 
And  the  sunny  world  more  fair. 

O  creatures  of  life  and  beauty! 

O  voice  divine  and  dear ! 
We  know  when  we  hear  thy  sweet  notes  ring, 

That  the  perfect  summer's  near! 


This  lady  was  horn  in  Waterville,  March  16, 1843.  The  most  of  her  girlhood  was  spent 
in  Hartlancl  with  her  father,  her  mother  having  died  when  she  was  but  six  years  old. 
She  graduated  from  the  academy  there  in  1859.  On  Nov.  12,  1864,  she  was  married  to 
"William  H.  Fogg,  of  Bath,  an  officer  in  the  navy  at  that  time.  After  passing  twenty-two 


LYDIA  MEREOW  FOGG.  673 


happy  years  together,  she  passed  on  to  the  other  life,  Feb.  17,  1837,  leaving  her  hnsband 
and  three  children  a  lasting  memory  of  her  virtues.  Too  ranch  cannot  be  said  of  her 
loveliness  of  character  and  person.  Patient,  hope*  ul,  sympathetic  and  tender,  all  hearts 
were  drawn  toward  her  instinctively.  The  Porttaii'l  Transcript,  to  which  she  had  been 
a  long  contributor,  said  of  her  that  "no  one  who  had  seen  the  rare  loveliness  of  her  face 
could  ever  forget  it."  We  subjoin  her  last  poem  published  in  that  paper  since  her  death. 


LIFE'S  NOVEMBER. 

I  said:  My  life  is  written  out, 

My  meagre  life  that  was  to  be 

So  full  of  hope,  so  free  from  doubt, 

So  full  of  boundless  charity. 

But  as  some  weed  that  bore  its  flower 

With  pride,  because  it  was  a  weed, 

And  through  some  tempest's  angry  hour 

Its  petals  dropped,  and  left  indeed 

Barren  the  stalk  on  which  it  grew, 

But  living  still,  through  cold  and  rain, 

It  dreams  of  skies  which  once  were  blue, 

And  buds  that  yet  may  come  again. 

Therein  our  likeness  ceases,  for 

I  have  no  hope  of  future  bloom, 

And  back  to  seasons  turn  that  saw 

My  flowers  and  breathed  their  sweet  perfume. 

I  must  awake!  and  from  me  shake 
This  lethargy  of  heart  and  brain  : 
All  times  are  seasons  of  our  Lord, 
And  he  can  make  them  bloom  again. 

We  fear  our  lives  are  written  out — 
Wilt  Thou  create  and  Thou  renew  ? 
Take  from  our  hearts  the  fear  and  doubt, 
With  new  resolves  our  souls  imbue. 

O  give  us  hope  instead  of  fear, 
O  give  us  faith  instead  of  doubt; 
With  charity  and  love  anear 
O  may  our  lives  be  written  out! 

ONLY  A  BIRD'S  NEST. 
Only  a  bird's  nest!  you  wonder  I  stand, 
Holding  the  tangled  shreds  in  my  hand ! 
Only  a  bird's  nest!  torn  and  brown, 
Tost  by  the  winds  from  the  oak-tree  down, 
The  tree  we  watched  in  sunny  weather, 
When  robins  were  building,  and  talking  together. 


674  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Syringas  were  falling  like  snow-flakes  white 

Over  the  steps,  and  the  glad  sunlight 

Crowned  like  a  halo  her  curls  of  gold, 

As  I  whispered  to  her  the  story  old, 

The  sweet  old  story,  sobbed  or  sung, 

In  every  heart  since  the  world  was  young. 

Her  work  lay  idle ;  we  watched  the  ne&t 
And  the  robins  flying  in  eager  questr 
"  For  something  they  had  not  foundr'r  I  said; 
"  They  seek  for  a  curl  from  this  golden  head.' 

"The  nest  should  be  lined  with  silken  floss, r> 
Then  back  the  golden  waves  she  tost, 
"  And  so  it  shall  be!"  she  quickly  said, 
As  a  curl  was  shorn  from  the  dainty  head, 
And  upward  tossed,  by  the  branches  wonr 
In  their  leafy  net,  like  a  wave  of  sun. 


Over  the  steps  the  snow-flakes  fall, 

The  winds  through  leafless  branches  cally 

And  I,  alas!  my  life  is  lone, 

For  robins  southward  long  have  flown, 

And  where  we  watched  them  build  togetherr 

I  stand  alone  in  wintry  weather, 

Holding  a  bird's  nest  brown  and  bare, 

But  golden-lined  with  her  shining  hair. 


$  l§i$hfand  (jtreene. 


Moses  H.  Greene  was  born  in  Chester,  N.  H..  March  10,  1843.  He  resided  for  a  while  in 
Kittery,  Me.,  where,  in  view  of  old  Ocean  and  the  jeweled  bosom  of  the  Piscataqua 
River,  he  courted  the  muses.  Later,  he  removed  to  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  and  now  resides 
in  Haverhill,  Mass.,  where  he  is  engaged  in  business.  Mr.  Greene,  in  leisure  hours,  has 
written  for  various  publications,  and  is  connected  with  the  Bradford  Farmers'  and 
Mechanics'  Literary  Institute. 


CHANGED. 

Hark !  through  the  gray  woods  dying  with  a  moan, 
Softly  the  winds  are  sighing,—"  Winter's  gone.'r 
Here  where  often  memory  calls  us, 
Where  the  joys  of  sense  enthrall  us, 

Where  no  grievious  thought  befalls  us  of  what  hath  been, 
Winter's  gone! 


ALFRED  COLE.  675 


Bright  may  the  spring-time  find  us— full  of  joy; 
Free  from  all  cares  that  bind  us,— sin's  alloy. 
God's  right  arm  around  us,  guarding, 
On  his  promises  enlarging, 

Written  o'er  life's  newest  margin,  of  what  shall  be. 
Winter  's  gone ! 

Then  in  our  woodland  bowers  yet  to  be, 
Oft  we '11  mark  the  shining  hours  glad  and  free; 
And  hand  in  hand  we'll  wander, 
Fully  blest  together  ponder 

'  Neath  the  fair  spring  sky— up  yonder  our  sun  shines  free,- 
Winter  's  gone! 

Sweetly  sings  the  morning  lark  overhead; 
Spring  has  banished  winter's  dark;  on  we're  led, 
Where  the  rill  is  sweetly  playing, 
Where  through  leafy  bowers  straying, 
All  its  summer  joys  displaying  round  us  ever — 
Winter '  s  gone ! 

Undulating  on  the  river,  buds  and  bloom, 
Rocking  in  our  boat  of  pleasure,  midst  perfume,. 
Earth's  full  joys  are  o'er  us  blending — 
Not  a  thought  that  needs  amending, 
Not  a  shade  of  doubt  portending  any  sadness, — 
Winter '  s  gone ! 


Alfred  Cole  wa,s  born  in  Hartford,  Me.,  May  16,  1843,  and  was  the  youngest  of  six  chil 
dren.  His  father,  Lemuel  Cole,  was  an  active  business  man.  Alfred  passed  his  boyhood 
on  the  farm,  attending  the  district  schools  and  the  high  schools  at  Canton,.  Early  in 
1861  the  family  moved  to  Buckfield  Village.  He  attended  the  high  school  there',  and  sub 
sequently  entered  Hebron  Academy,  and  also  had  one  year's  schooling  in  Boston.  Owing 
to  ill  health  he  continued  a  course  of  study  at  home,  acquiring  an  ardent  taste  for  classi 
cal  literature,  which  he  has  always  cultivated.  He.  engaged  in  trade  about  a  year  in  Buck- 
field,  and  subsequently  engaged  with  a  nursery  firm  at  Geneva,  N.  Y.,  representing  that 
firm  for  several  years  at  their  Boston  office  during  their  delivery  season.  He  afterwards 
engaged  in  the  same  business  for  himself.  In  1878  he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  B. 
Storer,  of  Buckfield.  He  has  held  various  town  offices  in  Buckfield,  where  he  is  now  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace  and  Postmaster,  having  been  appointed  to  the  latter  office  in  the 
fall  of  1885.  His  writings,  consisting  mostly  of  poems  and  sketches,  have  appeared  in 
the  Portland  Transcript  and  various  other  papers  and  magazines. 


MY  MOTHER, 
Old  and  wrinkled,  with  silvery  hair, 

And  eyes  bedimmed  with  the  touch  of  time, 
My  mother  sits  in  her  old  arm-chair, 

Weaving  threads  of  gold  with  her  autumn  rime. 
Once  my  mother  was  young  and  fair, 

When  the  wood-lark  warbled  her  wedding  chime. 


,7<)  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  she  ofttimes  speaks  of  the  quaint  old  ways 

Of  the  long  ago,  and  catches  gleams 
From  the  summer-land  of  her  vanished  days, 

Through  the  mists  of  years,  till  the  present  teems 
With  scenes  that  gladdened  her  childish  gaze 

And  forms  that  peopled  her  youthful  dreams. 

The  old  log-house,  with  its  homely  cheer, 
She  remembers  well,  and  how,  when  a  child, 

She  strayed  to  her  father's  clearing  near 

O'er  a  corduroy  road,  through  forests  wild— 

A  way  that  grew  fairer  year  by  year 
Till  fields  of  plenty  beside  it  smiled. 

She  recalls  the  preacher,  rigidly  brave 

To  battle  with  creeds  and  foes  unseen, 
The  quaint  old  church,  with  its  echoing  nave, 

Itsjold-time  choir  and  Sabbaths  serene; 
While  summer  now  over  the  preacher's  grave 

And  the  site  of  the  church  spreads  a  mantle  of  green. 

She  sits]with]her  knitting  and  heedeth  not 
Thejwaj's'of  "the  world  that  come  and  go; 

Its'murmurs  of  strife  are  scarcely  caught 
From  the  far-off  tides  that  ceaselessly  flow. 

Home  is  heiv world,  in  a  lowly  lot: 
Her  crown  was  won  where  the  daisies  grow. 

And  I  am  the  hero  of  that  world, 
The^genius  of  all,  whom  her  minstrels  sing— 

I,  so  nameless,  an  atom  swirled 
In  the  throng,  where  the  deeds  of  the  great  scarce  ring; 

For^me  love's  banner  is  gently  unfurled— 
I  am  thejiero,  I  am  the  king. 

Old  and  wrinkled !    Those  lines  of  care 

Were  written  for  me;  there  is  wealth  untold 

Blossoming  out  from  her  silvery  hair, 
Better  to  me  than  houses  and  gold. 

Once  my  mother  was  young  and  fair; 

God  bless  her  now  she  is  wrinkled  and  old ! 


glisMh  garner^  jjttrgin. 

Miss  E.  0.  Durg'tn  was  born  in  Portland,  May  26,  1843.  Her  father  was  Dr.  O.  E.  Dur- 
•in,  who'practiced  medioine  in  Portland  and  vicinity  half  a  century.  Miss  Durgin  grad 
uated  at  Gorham  Seminary,  and  was  a  teacher  in  her  native  State,  and  in  New  York,  for 
some  time.  Her  home  is  now  in  Deering,  where  she  lives  with  her  only  sister  and  her 
idopted  child.  She  has  written,  and  translated,  many  fine  poems. 


ELIZ A B E Til  CONVERSE  1) URGIN.  077 

A  "FAIR"'  ARGUMENT. 

Bright  scarlet  blushed  the  maple-leaves, 

The  elms  were  turning  golden, 
And  future  oaks  in  acorn-cups 

Right  daintily  were  holden. 
Upon  the  eastern  sky,  each  morn, 

There  shone  a  wondrous  comet, 
And  wise  and  foolish  gazed,  and  made 

Their  own  deductions  from  it. 

While  thus  Dame  Nature  magnified 

Her  wonders,  past  all  telling, 
Lo!  hands,  accounted  small  and  weak, 

Gigantic  wrongs  were  felling ; 
A  wonder,  not  of  earth  or  sky, 

Made  men  pause  in  their  walking, 
And  question  whither  this  must  tend, — 

A  Woman's  Congress,  talking! 

There  were,  who  said,  with  faces  grave, 

"  The  world  to  ruin  hurries; 
No  more  sweet  woman  stays  at  home, 

To  calm  the  household  worries. 
Henceforth  must  buttons  fall  like  leaves,- 

And  needles  bright  grow  rusty, 
The  baby  roar  unheeded,  while 

The  husband  waxeth  crusty. 

"For  how  can  Mrs.  Smith,  M.  D., 

Attend  to  household  matters  ? 
Or  Reverend  Mrs.  Jones  defend 

Her  family  from  tatters  ? 
Ah !  who  shall  cook  the  dinners  now  ? 

A  famine  sore  awaits  us! 
While  yonder  woman,  eloquent, 

Of  pity  void,  berates  us. 

"  O  Solomon,  who  soughtest  long 

To  find  a  single  woman, 
And,  in  a  thousand,  found  not  one, 

We  greet,  with  heart-throb  human, 
Our  fellow-sufferer;  but  ah! 

What  would  have  been  thy  wailing, 
Hadst  seen  with  thy  prophetic  eye 

What  centuries  were  veiling: 

*'  That  beings,  wearing  woman's  form, 
And  woman's  lovely  features, 


678  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Should  farmers,  lawyers,  brokers  be 
Inventors,  authors,  teachers; 

In  short,  should  boldly  undertake 
To  use  whatever  powers 

Move  from  within,  their  brains  or  hands, 
As  we,  their  lords,  use  ours  ?" 

Now  when  these  meanings  masculine 

Were  on  the  air  uplifted, 
Straightway  to  ears  most  womanly 

And  pitiful,  they  drifted. 
And  here,  to-night,  we  offer  you, 

O  men,  so  persecuted ! 
An  argument  potential,  and 

That  cannot  be  refuted. 

Who  thinks  the  art  of  sewing  lost 

Is  cordially  invited 
To  look  upon  our  tables,  and 

Confess  he  was  benighted. 
Know  that  the  woman  liveth  stillT 

Who,  wool  and  linen  taking, 
Works  skilfully,  with  willing  hands, 

All  needed  garments  making. 

And  that  her  merchandise  is  good 

Full  well  she  still  perceiveth. 
To-night  she  brings  her  food  from  far, 

And  firmly  she  believeth 
That  fears  of  famine  cannot  bide, 

When  you  shall  test  her  cooking. 
Grant  us  your  money  and  good  will, 

Our  rights  not  overlooking. 


jf  .jjjix 


Born  in  Portland,  Me.,  Sept.  14,  1843.  Attended  the  Grammar  and  High  Schools  .of 
Portland.  Entered  the  office  of  the  City  Civil  Engineer  early  in  1859,  remaining  about 
nine  months  when  he  accepted  a  position  in  the  draughting  department  of  the  Portland 
Compjmy's  Works.  In  November,  1861.  enlisted,  and  was  appointed  Sergeant  in  Co.  B, 
12th  Maine  Regiment;  was  discharged  for  disability,  at  Fortress  Monroe,  Ya.,  in  18C2.  In 
May,  18G4,  was  appointed  Acting  Third  Assistant  Engineer  in  the  navy,  and  served  in  that 
capacity  on  the  blockade  off  Charleston,  S.C.  On  the  evacuation  of  that  city  Jus  steamer, 
the  "  Gladiolus,"  was  the  first  of  the  fleet  to  pass  the  obstructions  and  reach  the  city.  In 
March  18G5,  resigned  from  the  navy  to  accept  an  appointment  of  Second  Assistant  Eugi- 
net-r  in  the  U.  S.  Revenue  service;  served  on  the  Boston  and  Portland  stations,  and 
resigiu-d  therefrom  Dec.  1,  18C6.  Was  afterwards  employed  in  the  City  Civil  Engineer's 
office  as  Second  Assistant  Engineer,  and  for  one  year  was  acting  as  First  Assistant  Engi 
neer  Entered  the  office  of  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  Company,  Portland,  m  -July, 
1873,  and  was  appointed  Cashier  of  that  office,  Feb.  1, 1887.  Ho  has  contributed  both  m 
verse  and-prose  to  various  publications.  Was  married  lo  Miss  Addie  M.  Hussey,  01  Port- 
laud,  in  1877. 


JOIIN  DIX  WILLIAMS.  679 


MIND  AND  THOUGHT. 

"It's  a  poor  rule  that  don't  work  both  ways,"  we  are  taught; 

But  here  an  exception  to  this  rule  you'll  find: 
Absence  of  mind  is  often  the  presence  of  thought, 

But  absence  of  thought  is  never  presence  of  mind! 


THE  IRISHMAN'S  DREAM. 

'Tis  an  old,  old  story — the  Irishman's  dream — 
Showing  that  sometimes  things  are  not  what  they  seem; 
He  dreamed  one  night  that  a  friend  asked  him^to  drink — 
Of  course  he  accepted,  as  quick  as  a  wink. 

When  asked  if  his  drink  should  be  hot  or  be  cold, 
He  allowed  he'd  take  it  as  hot  as  they  sold; 
The  bartender  turned  some  hot  water  to  get — 
Perhaps  but  for  that  he'd  been  slumbering  yet. 

But  just  at  this  point  he  awoke  with  a  start, 
And  the  loss  of  his  drink  took  greatly  to  heart; 
"  I  was  a  fool,"  said  he;  "  now  see  what  I've 'got; 
I  should  have  had  it  cold,  not  waited  for  hot!'1 


McCLELLAN. 

Halt,  Comrades,  here!    Uncover  all  I 
Before  this  black  and  mournful  pall 
Bend  low  your  heads,  and  drop  a  tear 
On  this  gallant  soldier's  bier. 

He  was  a  soldier,  tried  and  true; 
Loved  by  his  country — loved  by  you; 
Tried  by  fire  in  that  deadly  strife, 
Ready  to  offer  e'en  his  life. 

Upon  his  brow  the  laurel  place; 
Cast  one  fond  look  upon  his  face, 
Then  slowly,  sadly,  all  depart 
Bearing  his  image  in  each  heart. 

O  sweetly  may  our  hero  rest, 
Who  stood  a  peer  among  the  best! 
May  gentle  zephyrs  waft  above, 
To  "Little  Mac,"  the  soldier's  love! 


680  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Frederick  Fail-field  Foster  was  born  in  \V"iiithrpp,  Me.,  Oct.  11,  IS43,  where  his  father, 
Rev.  Frederic  Foster,  was  pastor  of  the  Universalist  Society.  In  1845,  his  parents  removed 
to  Bucktield,  where,  in  the  public  schools  find  mi  U>r  his  father's  instruction,  he  fitted  for 
college,  entering  Bowdoin  in  LS5'.),  but  never  joining  his  class  by  reason  of  a  second 
removal  of  his  parents  to  Meriden,  Conn.  In  1802  he  entered  the  Sophomore  Class  of 
Dartmouth  College,  his  father's  a/ni'i  ni'iter,  from  \vhic1i  he  was  graduated  in  1865.  For 
many  years  after  his  graduation  he  taught  in  Maine,  Massachusetts,  and  Xew  Hamp 
shire,  most  successfully,  devoting  much  of  his  leisure  time  to  literary  work,  at  which  he 
was  also  successful  During  the  past  few  years,  he  has  resided  in  Weare,  X.  It.,  with 
nis  mother,  and  given  himself  almost  entirely  to  literary  pursuits.  He  has  won  a  reputa 
ble  position  in  the  world  of  letters  His  especial  realm  has  been  that  of  prose  fiction; 
and,  though  making  no  claim  to  poetical  ability,  has  produced  verses  that  have  had  a 
wide^circulation,  and  entitle  him  to  a  place  among  the  bards  of  to-day. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 

Softly  the  shades  of  evening  round  me  gather, 
And,  in  their  depths,  bright  angel  forms  I  see 

Of  loved  ones,  who  have  passed  from  earth  forever: 
You,  cannot  see  them;  plain  are  they  to  me. 

Lightly  across  my  brow  they  pass  their  fingers, 
Wafting  away  all  weariness  and  pain; 
Upon  my  lips  their  tender  kiss  now  lingers, — 
Such  I  ne'er  knew  before.     Shall  I  again  ? 

In  accents  low,  so  low  they  reach  no  other 
Than  my  own  ear,  their  voices  come  to  me; 

Soothing  and  gentle  words  from  father,  brother 
And  sister,  too,  aie  spoken  silently. 

The  samo  fond  smiles  illuminate  their  faces, 
Which  they  were  wont  to  wear  long  years  ago, 

Before  they  went  from  earth  to  heavenly  places; 
They  sweeter  smile  than  when  they  dwelt  below. 

I  stretch  my  arm  out,  thinking,  yet  how  vainly, 
To  clasp  the  fingers  that  have  touched  my  brow. 

I  fain  would  kiss  the  lips  I  felt  so  plainly 
Pressed  t>  my  own.     I  cannot  feal  the;n  now. 

The  loving  words  which  thrilled  me  through  with  pleasure 
Bringing  glad  peace  and  comfort  to  my  soul, 

I  cannot  answer.     I  can  only  treasure 

Their  memories  blest,  as  on  the  years  shall  roll. 

The  shadows  round  me  noiselessly  are  creeping, 
Working  strange  fancies  both  on  wall  and  floor, 

Midst  them  I  search  for  those  who  have  been  keeping 
Their  watch  with  me.     I  see  them  now  no  more. 


LEWIS  FliEDERIC  STARRETT.  681 

I  am  alone.     I  know  myself  far  purer 

That  they  have  been  a  little  while  with  me: 
Their  presence,  smiles,  words,  kisses  make  me  surer 

Their  love  will  end  but  with  eternity. 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

A  kindly  smile,  a  cheery  word, 
Alone  to  me  were  given; 

By  them  my  very  soul  was  stirred, 
Earth  made  to  seem  a  heaven. 


~  .     M  Mhrreit. 

This  poet  was  born  in  Warren.  Me.,  June  20,  1844.  He  was  reared  on  the  farm  on 
which  he  was  born,  and  there  his  home  has  always  been.  He  was  employed  in  Portland 
from  1862  to  1867,  and  subsequently  learned  stenography,  which  he  practiced  for  a  time 
in  the  courts  ot  Maine.  In  1877  he  was  elected  Clerk  of  Courts  for  Knox  County  and 
has  since  tilled  that  position,  having  been  re-elected  in  1880  and  1884.  Mr  Starrett  'began 
to  write  verse  when  quite  young,  though  the  bulk  of  what  he  has  written  has  been  done 
quite  recently.  A  memorial  tribute  in  18G5,  written  upon  the  day  of  the  National  fast 
appointed  for  the  death  of  President  Lincoln,  was  published  a  week  or  two  later  in  the 

f^£?'irTr£Z8Cr*£t'  Rn(l  was  \ligllly  Pr»ised-  Tt  appeared  under  the  signature  "S  " 
In  1883  Mr.  Starrett  commenced  the  study  of  German,  at  Rockbind  with  a  German 
teacher,  and  has  become  much  interested  in  this  language.  He  has  made  several  trans 
lations  and  finding  his  material,  both  original  and  translated,  accumulating  on  his 
panda  lie  published  a  very  interesting  and  valuable  volume  in  the  fall  of  1887  under  the 
title  of  ^  Poems  and  Translations,"  which  is  having  a  good  sale.  The  negative  fact  must 
be  mentioned  that  he  has  never  married;  as  Mr.  Peggotty  said  of  himself,  we  may  say  of 
Lewis,  he  is  a  bacheldore." 

OLD  UN" OLE  BILLY  WHITTEMORE. 

I  call  to  mind  a  queer  old  man, 
Whom  well  I  knew  in  days  of  yore, — 

One  in  his  life  esteemed  by  all, 

Whom  everybody  used  to  call 
Old  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

I  doubt  not  that  he  once  was  young, 

And  wore  a  frock  and  pinafore; 
But  howsoever  that  may  be, 
For  very  many  years  was  he 

Old  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

He  was  a  simple-minded  man, 

Not  versed  at  all  in  bookish  lore, 
For  slight  had  been  his  chance  at  school, 
And  yet  not  anybody's  fool 

Was  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

45 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


A  little  garden-plat  he  tilled, 

And  larger  crops  each  year  it  bore 
Than  many  younger  men  will  scratch 
From  off  three  times  as  big  a  patch,— 
Old  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

When  anybody  asked  him  how 

He  made  it  yield  such  goodly  store, 
He  said,  while  he  could  use  a  hoe, 
He  didn't  mean  the  weeds  should  grow,  — 
Shrewd  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

The  world  his  neighborhood  beyond, 

He  cared  but  little  to  explore  ; 
He  followed  peace,  and  hated  strife, 
And  loved  his  children  and  his  wife,-- 
Old  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

An  honest,  wholesome  life  he  lived; 

He  neither  gambled,  drank,  nor  swore,— 
Unless,  indeed,  an  oath  you  call 
That  phrase  of  his,  "Consarn  it  all!" 

Quaint  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

He  used  it  when  he  spilled  his  milk, 

Or  when  his  Sunday  clothes  he  tore, 
Or  when  his  neighbors'  cattle  vexed, 
For  sadly  such  mishaps  perplexed 
Poor  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

Throughout  the  winter  evenings  long, 
Before  the  fire  at  Thompson's  store, 

Perched  on  an  old  inverted  keg, 

Or  on  a  stool  that  lacked  a  leg, 
Sat  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

He  used  to  fill  the  old  clay  pipe 

He  smoked  a  dozen  years  before, 
And  then  his  locofoco  match 
Across  his  pantaloons  would  scratch, 
Our  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

And  as  he  smoked,  and  now  and  then 

Expectorated  on  the  floor, 
He  heard  old  tales  and  gossip  new, 
Accepting  every  word  as  true, 

Plain  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 


WILLIAM  WALLACE  MAXIM.  683 

And  if  a  story  pleased  the  rest 

He  always  joined  in  the  encore; 
And  when  'twas  time  to  blow  the  light, 
Straight  to  his  home  he  went  each  night, 

Good  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. 

But  by-and-by  there  came  a  time 

He  couldn't  go  beyond  his  door; 
And  then  the  doctor  shook  his  head 
When  people  called  to  him  and  said,— 

"How's  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore  ?" 

And  when,  one  day,  the  bell  was  tolled, 

The  people  counted  up  four  score ; 
And  still  it  struck,  one,  two  and  three, 
Four,  five,  -then  stopped,  "Yes,  it  must  be 

Old  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore." 

Full  soon  his  body  to  the  grave, 

With  quiet  tread,  the  neighbors  bore. 
There  many  years  the  grass  has  grown, 
And  you  may  read  upon  the  stone  :— 

"Here  lieth  William  Whittemore." 


mm  IP/fcw  <jj£.mtn. 

W.lliam  W.  Maxim  was  born  in  Buckflold.  Oxford  County  Me    Sept  19  1844  bein<* 
™?°i"tU,9!L?  !"a'mly  of  te»  children,  all  of  whom  are  living  at  the  present' time!  f.Uav. 


uto  ,  ,  ngt  the  prent  tine 

1833)  the  oldest  being  forty-seven  y  law  of  age,  tlie  youngest  (twins)  thirty      His  Darents 

Sr^SPbJMXS?  ai  l  MnSSu*Y1Ua  (H:irlow)  Maxinl  ***  ^ere  both  schoof-  each- 
BTO,  and  both  POfSfSSed  considerable  poetic  talent.  William  was  passionately  fond  of 
poatry  when  a  child,  and  at  the  age  of  live  years  could  repeat  page  after  pa-e  it  twelve 
aUvrev°ersfn,P3  ^J19110.34'1  ^riting  for  the  press,  and  has  continued  to  Vrite  occas?on- 
ally  ever  since.  He  has  also  been  eiig-ig-H  bv  agricultural  p-.ipsrs  in  other  States  to  fur 


.  -  p-.ipsrs   n  oer     taes  to    ur 

nish  articles  upon  farm  top1Cs      Ho  has  lived  alone  on  a  large  estate  near  Mt    Mica  in 
Pans,  Me.,  for  many  years,  and  is  known  as  the  "  Literar    Hermit  " 


STRANGERS. 

We  are  living  and  toiling  as  strangers 
In  a  land  that  we  call  our  own  ; 

We  are  passing,  like  priest  and  Levite, 
The  road  to  the  great  unknown. 

We  talk  of  the  golden  city, 
Of  friends  in  that  home  so  dear, 

But  scarcely  a  word  of  pity 
For  those  who  are  starving  here. 


<584  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Starving  for  love  and  devotion 
And  the  graces  that  round  them  fall; 

Starving  for  pure  religion 
Tii  a  country  of  churches  tall. 

These  shadows  and  baubles  are  empty, 
Though  decked  with  the  treasures  of  art, 

And  the  light  of  a  life  burns  dimly 
When  love  has  gone  out  of  the  heart. 

We  read  in  the  legends  of  heroes, 
Who,  labors  of  love  to  bestow, 

Put  self  in  the  misty  back-ground 
And  build  up  the  kingdom  below. 

May  we  ask  with  patience  enduring 
Like  the  servants  and  seekers  of  yorer 

That  the  faith  of  the  ancient  martyrs 
Might  visit  the  earth  once  more ; 

Might  come  like  the  splendors  of  sunlight 

To  a  shadowy  groping  band ; 
Might  come  like  the  rain  in  summer 

To  the  arid  and  dusty  land. 

For  the  same  old  passions  bind  us, 

And  the  same  afflictions  bow, 
And  we  know  that  the  God  of  the  Bible 

Is  the  God  of  His  children  now. 


IN  THE  FUTURE. 

There  are  joys  locked  up  in  the  future 

That  only  the  angels  know, 
There  are  pains  and  crosses  and  trials 

That  our  wisdom  cannot  forego. 

But  stop,  there's  a, faith  in  the  future 

That  is  ample,  and  just,  and  true ; 
There  is  courage  and  strength  to  conquer, 

And  a  grace  that  is  always  new. 

<H&nrt1\<t  (Ijiven  (J^ohord. 

This  writer  the  daughter  of  John  W.  and  M.  O.  Colcord.  was  horn  in  Har.cock,  Hills- 
fcoro  County,  N.  H.,  in  1845.  Her  parents  removed  1o  Portland,  A!e.,  in  her  infancy,  and 
that  city  has,  \\ith  a  few  brief  intervals,  sii.ce  heen  her  lionie.  She  vas  educat*  d  in  the 
public  and  private  schools  of  the  city,  and  at  the  State  Normal  School.  Lite  her  sister 
Millie  Colcord  she  manifested  a  poetical  taste  at  an  early  age;  but  excepting  occasional 


MAR  THA  O  WEN  COL  CORD.  G85 

fugitive  pieces  contributed  to  different  journals  over  various  signatures,  her  verses  have 
been  penned  for  personal  friends  and  social  gatherings,  often  including  both  words  and 
music.  For  years  she  has  been  an  earnest  member  of  the  Catholic  (Cathedral)  church  in 
Portland,  having  charge  of  various  choirs  connected  \vith  the  sodalities  of  that  congre 
gation. 

A   LESSON". 

Sweet  Hope  and  fair  Contentment,  hand  in  hand, 
Sought  for  a  resting-place  throughout  the  land. 

The  rich  man  was  too  busy  with  his  gold, 
The  poor  man  all  his  bitter  sorrows  told. 

The  sick  were  waiting  for  the  boon  of  health — 
And  everywhere  men  sought  for  fame  or  wealth. 

Wearied  at  last  they  rested  by  the  way, 

Where  a  poor  blind  man  begged  for  alms  each  day. 

They  waited,  listening  for  his  tale  of  woe, 
Ere  onward  in  their  weary  search  they  go : 

Waited  in  vain;   they  heard  a  murmured  prayer, 
And  saw  a  face  serene  and  free  from  care; 

The  blind  man  seemed  to  feel  their  presence  near, 
And  asked  an  alms  "for  love  of  Christ  so  dear." 

"Silver  and  gold  we  haye  not,"  answered  they, 
"But  we  have  found  a  resting-place  to-day." 

They  asked  him  of  his  friends — they  all  were  dead; 
"But  God  loves  mn,  and  I  love  Him,"  he  said. 

They  asked  him  if  lie  never  longed  for  sight: 
"The  day  shines  but  the  brighter  for  the  night; 

And  God  the  Father  cares  for  me  each  day, 
While  I  delight  to  do  His  will  alway." 

When  morning  came,  they  sought  again  the  face 
So  lighted  by  the  Holy  Spirit's  grace; 

But  God's  bright  angels,  coming  in  the  night, 
Had  borne  his  soul  away  to  realms  of  light! 


RESURREXIT. 

Easter  lilies  pure  and  white, 
Angels  clothed  in  robes  of   light 
Tell  the  world  that  Christ  is  risen 
From  the  grave,  that  darksome  prison. 
Let  us  hasten  to  his  feet, 
And  our  risen  Saviour  greet. 


CH6  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Gone  the  passion's  gloomy  hours, 
Now  we  twine  the  cross  with  flowers. 
Christ  has  home  this  hitter  sadness, 
All  our  hearts  to  fill  with  gladness. 
Resurrexit,  let  us  sing, 
Welcome  to  our  risen  King. 

Autumn  leaves  grow  brown  and  sere, 
Earth  and  sky  seem  cold  and  drear. 
Flowers  beneath  the  snow  are  lying, 
Wintry  winds  a  requiem  sighing: 
But  when  winter's  storms  are  o'er, 
Then  the  flowers  shall  bloom  once  more. 

Thus  we  long  for  heaven's  glad  light, 
While  we  pass  through  earth's  dark  night: 
But  our  Saviour's  gone  before  us, 
And  his  love  is  ever  o'er  us. 
Star  of  Hope,  illume  our  way, 
Alleluia,  sing  to-day. 


jjomerog. 


Rachel  Pomeroy,  the  gifted  sister  of  Edward  !N.  Pomeroy.  elsewhere  represented  in 
this  volume,  was  born  in  Yarmouth,  Me.,  March  9,  1845,  and  died  in  Boston,  Mass.,  June 
16,  1880.  Miss  Pomeroy  was  a  very  graceful  and  interesting  writer  ?nd  was  an  occa 
sional  contributor  to  the  leading  religious  and  literary  journals  and  magazines. 


MAINE  WOODS. 

May-flower  from  over  the  sea, 

With  the  bloom  still  bright  on  your  lips, 
And  a  hint  of  odor  lingering  yet 

In  your  delicate  petal  tips ; 
Nursling  shy  of  a  season  wild. 
Nature's  first  and  fairest  child. 

You  have  come  so  far,  so  far, 

Tender,  beautiful  thing, 
Out  of  the  sharp  New  England  woods, 

And  a  frosty  northern  spring, 
Yet  bringing,  methinks,  the  woodland  smell, 
Whose  spicy  wealth  I  know  so  well. 

Your  perfume  smote  on  my  sense 
Like  a  delicate,  dim  complaint; 


ED  WIN  POND  PAEKER. 


Subtle  meanings  seem  to  hide 

In  the  woodland  murmurs  faint, 
And  the  city  gleaming  across  the  bay 
In  smoke  and  shadow  faded  away. 

For  one  amazing  hour 

The  dull  world  dies  to  me, 
Sky,  tree-top,  sudden  bird-note  grow 

Life's  sole  reality, 

And  O,  to  have  staid  there  all  alone, 
Afar  from  tiresome  school  and  town  ! 

Flower  and  I  were  one, 

Earth  held  us  to  her  heart, 
Her  fragrant  breath  was  011  our  brows— 

But  she  let  her  babes  depart; 
Stealer  and  stolen  went  their  ways, 
Yet  she  loved  us  both  in  those  old  days. 

Yet,  O  enchanted  Mays, 

O  woodland  odors  wild, 
Have  you  ever  missed  from  then  to  now 

The  happy-hearted  child 
That  went  so  blithe  through  yonder  wood, 
Your  sun  and  bloom  in  her  dancing  blood  ? 

Nay,  nature  spares  us  well, 

She's  our  foster-mother  at  best; 

'Tis  never  she  that  needs  our  love, 
But  we  that  need  her  rest; 

So  she  gathers  us  back  to  her  veins  at  last, 

And  new  life  cojiies  to  repeat  the  past. 

But,  O  forests  fair,  as  of  old, 
And  May-blossoms  over  the  sea, 

O  merry  children  despoiling  both, 
You  all  belong  to  me  — 

For  into  the  past  ye  slip  away, 

And  Jo,  the  dead  years  bloom  to-day! 


n  §ontl  § 


Edwin  P.  Parker,  D.  D.  ,  born  in  Castine,  Me.,  Jan.  13,  1836;  fitted  for  college  atFoxcroft 
Academy,  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  185G;  studied  divinity  at  Bangor:  installed 
pastor  of  the  Second  Church  in  Hartford,  -Jan.  11,  I860.  Author  of  "Book  of  Praise," 
'Christian  Hymnal,"  and  other  manuals  of  praise.  Poet  of  Delta  Kappa  Epsilon  Con 
vention  at  Providence,  and  orator  of  convention  at  Hartford;  author  of  numerous  hymns 
and  also  of  music  for  choir  use;  and  contributor  to  periodical  literature. 


088  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


SOXG. 

AIR— "MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA." 
Strew  the  sod  with  roses  where  the  fallen  heroes  lie, 
Build  the  wondrous  story  of  their  glory  to  the  sky, 
Sing  once  more  the  song  of  yore  that  made  them  dare  to  die: — 
Union  and  Freedom  forever! 

CHORUS:    Hurrah!  Hurrah!  we  shout  the  juhilee! 

Hurrah!  Hurrah!  the  flag  that  makes  us  free! 
Let  the  chorus  echo  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea, 
Union  and  Freedom  forever! 

Shadowy  hosts  come  thronging  in  from  Freedom's  battle  plain, 
Round  the  dear  old  flag  they  flock  and  rally  once  again; 
And  their  purer  voices  join  our  jubilant  refrain: — 

Union  and  Freedom  forever! 
CHORUS:    Hurrah!  Hurrah!  etc. 

founds  of  strife  and  discord  in  the  distance  die  away, 
Hand  in  hand  old  foemen  stand  in  brotherly  array, 
Blue  and  gray  united  at  one  altar  kneel  and  pray:— 

Union  and  Freedom  forever! 
CHORUS:    Hurrah!  Hurrah!  etc. 

Everlasting  honor  to  the  nameless,  myriad  brave! 

Age  to  age  shall  proudly  tell  the  offerings  they  gave; 

God  of  battles,  guard  and  bless  the  land  they  died  to  save: 

Union  and  Freedom  forever ! 
CHORUS:    Hurrah!  Hurrah!  etc. 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

ROSWELL    I).  HITCHCOCK,  D.D. 

The  lips  are  silent  which  alone  could  pay 

His  worthy  tribute.     We  can  only  lay 

The  laurel  on  his  breast, 

And  bear  him  to  his  rest, 

And  say,  farewell,  clear  soul,  till  break  of  day. 

Dear  brother-soul!  within  that  realm  unknown 

When  thy  good  spirit  far  from  us  has  flown, 

Canst  thou  look  back  and  see 

How  lonely,  without  thee, 

And  how  impoverished  our  world  has  grown 

In  purer  light  dost  thou  now  clearly  scan 
The  lines  of  truth  so  dim  to  mortal  man  ? 
Dost  see  amid  our  gloom 


ANNA  BOYN'ION  AVEEILL  68<J 


The  beauty  and  the  bloom 

Of  some  inclusive  and  unfolding  plan  ? 

Are  mysteries  disclosed  ?  misgivings  stilled  ? 

Dark  doubts  disproved?     Hope's  prophecies  fulfilled  ? 

We  only  hear  our  cries 

Re-echoed  from  the  skies, 

In  the  vast,  awful  silence  God  has  willed. 

Oh,  brother  sweet,  what  wouldst  thou  have  me  say  ? 

Sleep  well!  farewell!  the  night  is  for  the  day 

And  not  the  day  for  night! 

Sleep  well  till  morning  light 

Shall  break  thy  rest,  then  rise  and  go  thy  way! 


Mnnn  jjojtnfon  Mverill. 

<&u  ^W       ^  ^&U 

Miss  Anna  B.  Averill,  the  eldest  of  a,  family  of  ten  children  of  George  Averill,  alum- 
"berman  of  Penobscot,  and  fanner  of  Foxeroft,  was  born  in  Alton.  From  a  literary  essay, 
the  first  of  a  series  on  Maine  Poets  running  in  the  columns  of  the  Porl.lanil-  Transcript, 
and  written  by  Mr.  Edwin  K.  Champlin.  we  learn  that  most  of  the  life  of  this  author 
has  been  spent  in  Alton  and  Dover,  she  having  lived  only  some  three  years  in  Foxeroft. 
Her  mother's  maiden  name  was  Nancy  Burrill.  Miss  Averill's  former  literary  name, 
Anna  Boynton,  was  her  grandmother  Averill's  maiden  name.  Her  daily  duties  are 
domestic,  as  she  is  her  father's  housekeeper,  but  every  moment  of  leisure  is  given  to 
study  and  poetical  composition,  with  occasional  rides  to  the  postman's,  and  rambles  in 
the  fields  and  woods.  Miss  Averill's  name  is  a  familiar  one  to  the  many  lovers  of  choice 
poetry,  and  her  graceful  productions  have  appeared  in  the  Atlantic,  Lippiricotffs.  and 
other  leading  magazines  and  journals.  Readers  of  the  Youth's  Companion  and  /'ort- 
latid  Transcript  have  long  read  her  shorter  pieces,  frequently  reprinted,  and  which  have 
aptly  been  spoken  of  as  marked  by  a  "  peculiar  combination  of  purity  suid  sweetness." 
Miss  Averill  is  not  only  a  natural  and  sweet  singer,  but  has  those  qualities  which  endear 
her  to  all  who  know  her.  Such  a  woman,  broad  in  her  sympathies,  delicate  and  refin 
ed  in  her  nature,  can  do  much  to  bless  and  benefit  humankind.  Miss  Averill  has  writ 
ten  admirably  for  children,  a  difficult  task,  and  some  of  her  shorter  poems  have  been  set 
to  music. 


NORTHERN  MAINE. 
My  native  wilds !    For  years  untold 
The  morning  touched  your  hills  with  gold. 
The  north  wind  swept  your  fragrant  glooms, 
And  bore  the  larch  and  pine  perfumes 
Across  your  lakes  of  lily  blooms. 

The  fir,  the  hemlock  and  the  pine 
Sang  on  the  heights — and  moss  and  vine 
Made  many  a  far,  dim  valley  sweet 
And  shadowy  for  the  shy  fawn's  feet. 

In  silvery  solitudes,  the  loon 
Laughed  with  the  echoes,  and  the  moon 
Made  splendor  on  the  mountains,  when 
The  Storm  King  slept,  unseen  of  men. 


090  THE  POETS  OF  MAI&E. 

0  woods,  and  lakes,  and  wandering  streams ! 
Ye  have  awakened  from  your  dreams. 
Your  sweet  breath  blew  abroad.     Beware! 
The  gay  world  comes  and  finds  you  fair. 

Will  all  wild  things  take  wing  away  ? 

1  ween  I  would  an'  I  were  they. 
Up  these  deep  water-ways  I'd  fare, 
If  I  were  wolf,  or  moose,  or  bear, 
Or  bird,  or  fawn,  or  fox,  or  hare ! 

O  northern  wilds!  you  surely  hold 
In  your  great  heart  some  refuge  old, 
Safe  hid  and  far  and  deep  and  dumb, 
Where  the  gay  world  will  never  come. 


SONNET. 

The  softened  splendors  of  a  million  spheres 
Are  gently  showered  upon  our  feeble  sight 
Through  the  great  shadow  of  the  world  to-night. 
The  troublous  thunders  of  the  infinite  years 
Fall  into  dreamful  echoes  on  our  ears. 
Standing  below  the  awful  heaven's  height, 
Blind  to  the  blessing  of  the  tempered  light, 
We  gaze  on  brighter  worlds  through  wistful  tears. 
And  always  in  the  shadows  of  our  life, 
Shrouded  from  splendors  that  we  could  not  bear, 
We  long  for  some  far  heaven  where  we  shall  bow 
Before  His  face,  while  all  the  night  is  rife 
With  tender  glory,  and  the  common  air 
Throbs  with  His  presence  even  here  and  now. 

BIRCH  STREAM. 

At  noon,  within  the  dusty  town, 
Where  the  wild  river  rushes  down 

And  thunders  hoarsely  all  day  long, 
I  think  of  thee,  my  hermit  stream, 
Low  singing  in  thy  summer  dream 

Thine  idle,  sweet,  old,  tranquil  song. 

Northward,  Katahdin's  chasmed  pile 
Looms  through  thy  low,  long,  leafy  aisle; 

Eastward,  Olamon's  summit  shines; 
And  I  upon  thy  grassy  shore, 
The  dreamful  happy  child  of  yore, 

Worship  before  mine  olden  shrines. 


GEORGE  BOND  CRANE.  (J'.)l 

Again  the  sultry  noontide  hush 
Is  sweetly  broken  by  the  thrush, 

Whose  clear  bell  rings  and  dies  away 
Beside  thy  banks,  in  coverts  deep, 
Where  nodding  buds  of  orchid  sleep 

In  dusk,  and  dream  not  it  is  day. 

Again  the  wild  cow-lily  floats 
Her  golden-freighted,  tented-boats 

In  thy  cool  coves  of  softened  gloom, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  whispering  reed, 
And  purple  plumes  of  pickerel-weed, 

And  meadow-sweet  in  tangled  bloom. 

The  startled  minnows  dart  in  flocks 
Beneath  tliy  glimmering  amber  rocks, 

If  but  a  zephyr  stirs  the  brake; 
The  silent  swallow  swoops,  a  flash 
Of  light,  and  leaves,  with  dainty  plash, 

A  ring  of  ripples  in  her  wake. 

Without,  the  land  is  hot  and  dim ; 
The  level  fields  in  langour  swim, 

Their  stubble-grasses  brown  as  dust; 
And  all  along  the  upland  lanes, 
Where  shadeless  noon  oppressive  reigns, 

Dead  roses  wear  their  crowns  of  rust. 

Within,  is  neither  blight  nor  death; 
The  fierce  sun  wooes  with  ardent  breath, 

But  cannot  win  thy  sylvan  heart. 
Only  the  child  who  loves  thee  long, 
With  faithful  worship  pure  and  strong, 

Can  know  how  dear  and  sweet  thou  art. 

So  loved  I  thee  in  days  gone  by, 

So  love  I  yet,  though  leagues  may  lie 

Between  us,  and  the  years  divide; 
A  breath  of  coolness,  dawn,  and  dew, 
A  joy  forever  fresh  and  true, 

Thy  memory  doth  with  me  abide. 


ond 


Dr.  George  B.  Crane  was  born  in  Chesterville,  Me.,  July  4,  1845,  and  spent  his  boyhood 
days  at  Fayette  Corner  and  Mount  Vernon.  He  enlisted  from  the  latter  town  in  the  4th 
Maine  Battery,  June,  1863,  and  was  discharged  in  June,  1865.  Married  in  June,  18GG. 
He  attended  the  Medical  lectures  at  Brunswick,  and  at  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  receiving 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


the  degree  of  M.  J)..  at  Brunswick,  in  June,  1868.  practicing  one  year  in  Patten,  and  then 
removing  to  .M;lo,  and  from  thence  to  Wayne,  in  1877.  In  1881  Mr.  Crane  went  into  busi 
ness  at  Bristol  K.  J.,  returning  to  Milo,  .January,  1884.  He  was  appointed  postmaster  at 
Milo,  June,  1885.  In  the  winter  of  1885-80  he  gave  up  the  practice  of  medicineon  account 
of  disease  of  the  lungs.  He  was  a  dealer  in  drugs  and  merchandise  in  Milo  until  Novem 
ber,  1887,  at  which  time  he  went  to  New  Mexico  for  his  health. 


BLUE  EYES. 

Like  gallant  knight  you  swear  to  die 
If  need  be,  to  defend  that  eye, 
From  'neath  whose  dark  and  drooping  lash 
Steal  glances  like  the  lightning's  flash. 
But  when  a  knight,  I  take  the  field, 
Bearing  my  trusty  lance  and  shield, 
My  plume  shall  be  of  lightest  blue, 
My  sash  the  same  ethereal  hue, 
And  my  clear,  ringing  battle  cry, 
"  Long  live  the  maid  with  the  blue  eye." 


APRIL  FOOL. 

In  quest  of  food  an  early  bird, 
Pecking  the  frozen  ground,  is  heard 
Soliloquizing:  "Everv  word 

Of  that  old  rule 
Regarding  worms  is  false,  absurd," 

An  April  Fool! 

A  hat  upon  a  flinty  brick 

Lay  by  the  way;  a  youth  named  Dick 

Administered  one  hearty  kick, 

Then  went  to  school, 
Whistling,  though  looking  very  sick,— 

Young  April  Fool. 

At  eve  the  poet  hears  the  hum 

Of  wings  o'er  glades  that  long  were  dumb, 

And  sings,  "The  joyous  Spring  is  come." 

Hark !  from  yon  pool 
A  voice  arises  hoarse  and  grum : 

"Fool!  April  Fool!" 

Lives  there  a  mortal  who  can  lay 
His  hand  upon  his  heart  and  say, 
In  April  is  the  only  day^ 

He  acts  the  fool? 
Heaven  cheer  him  on  his  lonely  way, 

Poor  April  Fool. 


ROSE  MCKEXNEY  RAWSON.  693 


The  daughter  of  William  and  Mary  Besse  McKenney,  and  was  born  in  Paris,  .Inly  18, 
1845.  Her  mother  was  a  sister  of  Hon.  Warren  H.  Vinton.  Mrs.  Rawson,  before  her 
marriage,  was  a  successful  teacher  and  has  been  an  occasional  contributor  to  various 
publications  for  several  years,  both  in  poetry  and  prose.  She  married  the  Rev.  Otis 
Bent  Rawson,  a  Baptist  clergyman,  who  was  at  one  time  settled  over  the  church  in 
Bethel,  but  is  now  located  out  of  the  State. 


THE  OLD  HOME  IN  THE  LANE. 

There's  something  in  the  air  this  morn  that  carries  me  away, 
Back  many  a  year  of  toil  and  care,  back  many  a  weary  day. 
Once  more  I  seem  a  careless  child,  I'll  fling  away  care's  chain, 
And  visit  with  my  heart  to-day  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

O  let  my  father  just  this  once  lay  off  his  silv'ring  hair, 
And  put  away  those  spectacles,  and  then  those  lines  of  care; 
Do  take  away  those  signs  of  age;  O  make  him  young  again, 
To  visit  with  his  child  to-day  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

O  let  my  mother  once  .again,  I  beg  with  aching  heart, 
Have  just  a  score  of  age's  cares  from  off  her  life  depart; 
Then  will  she  not  so  feebly  step,  but,  free  from  grief  and  pain, 
Again  go  happy,  singing  in  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

And  now  I  look  across  the  hill,  and  see  the  self-same  grass 
Roll  off  in  waves  'way  down  the  vale,  and  flee  as  on  I  pass; 
Just  as  I've  watched  it  many  a  time  sweep  off  across  the  plain, 
When  I  regretfully  would  seek  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

The  path  across  the  orchard  lot  we  hourly  used  to  pass 

Has  been  fenced  up  by  stranger  hands,  they  say,  to  save  the  grass; 

And  then  the  balm  of  Gilead  trees  will  never  bloom  again, 

A  stranger's  axe  has  sadly  robbed  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

The  brook  in  which  we  fished  for  frogs  and  bare  feet  waded  through, 
And  all  the  unhatched  pollivvogs  and  toads  we  thoughtless  slew, 
To  make  a  fertile  field  they  say,  he's  spoiled  it  with  a  drain, — 
Ah,  sadly  changed  are  you  to-day,  dear  old  home  in  the  lane. 

Ah,  stop— where  are  the  dearly  loved,  the  old  home  held  so  long, 
The  dear,  unbroken  household  band,  that  cheered  its  hearth  with  song  ? 
Then  let  me  lay  aside  my  pen,  and  hear  again  that  strain, 
Just  as  it  cheered  in  years  ago  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

The  noblest  boy,  the  father's  pride,  to-day  his  heart  so  true, 
Lies  still  and  silent  'neath  his  coat  of  undimmed  army  blue: 
Beneath  the  sun  of  distant  skies,  upon  a  southern  plain, 
There  lies  the  pride  and  treasure  of  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  old  church-yard  upon  the  hill  of  dear  ones  has  its  share, 
Two  brothers  dear  lie  side  by  side,  a  sister,  too.  is  there; 
So  sadly  changed  is  now  the  flock,  'twould  be  less  joy  than  pain, 
E'en  if  I  could  go  back  and  see  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

The  dear  old  neighbors,  though  to  them  must  needs  have  been  the  lot 
Of  human  frailties;  still  they  seem  as  though  they  had  them  not, 
And  dear  to  me  as  precious  links  in  memory's  golden  chain 
Are  those  old  friends  united  with  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

I  have  had  many  kindly  friends,  God  bless  them  all  and  each,  — 
But  there's  a  tender  tie  of  old  that  these  can  never  reach; 
Perhaps  'tis  wrong  and  childish  weak,  I  know  it's  all  in  vain, 
But  how  my  heart  is  yearning  for  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 

But  now  'tis  time  I  dried  my  tears,  and  closed  the  portals  up, 
That's  filled  with  recollections  sweet  from  memory's  brimming  cup; 
I  draw  the  curtain  to  the  world—  go  back  to  work  again, 
But  treasured  next  to  Heaven,  shall  be  the  old  home  in  the  lane. 


jfionhn. 


Edward  A.  Jordan  was  born  in  Portland.  Me.,  November  11,  1842.  He  was  a  lover  of 
music  and  song,  and  WMS  a  skilful  player  of  musical  instruments,  and  wrote  poetry  of  a 
high  order.  His  retiring  disposition  prevented  his  being  better  known.  He  was  a  true 
friend,  and  faithful  to  his  convictions.  He  died  in  Portland,  in  1885. 


WHEN  I  SHALL  SLEEP! 

When  I  shall  sleep,  never  again  to  waken, 

Wilt  thou  not  come 
And  sit  beside  what  then  remains, 

Though  cold  and  dumb, — 
Of  him,  whose  heart  with  all  its  stains, 
'Mid  all  its  waverings,  joys  or  pains, 
Was  in  its  trust  and  love  of  thee  unshaken  ? 

Soon  I  may  sleep  in  this  unbroken  slumber, 

Yea,  e'en  to-night! 
Whene'er  the  time  may  be,  do  thou, 

As  by  thy  right, 

Come  to  me;  I  shall  know  as  now 
As  o'er  me  thou  shalt  sadly  bow,— 
And  silently  shall  all  thy  kisses  number. 


EMMA  UUNTINGTON  N ASON.  695 

And  though  my  lips  shall  never  more  return  thee 

Thy  dear  caress ; 
Believe  that  I  shall  always  know 

And  always  bless 
The  only  one  on  earth  below, 
That  with  my  faults  hath  loved  me  so, 
Whose  kindly  heart  will  never  cease  to  mourn  me. 

Perchance  my  life  may  linger  late;  its  twilight 

Slowly  ending 
In  eternity.    I  shall  need 

Thy  befriending 
Tenderness.     O  may  I  be  freed 
From  life,  ere  yet  its  years  exceed 
The  sweet  duration  of  thy  love !    E'en  to-night ! 


jjjmnw  jjitntington 


Mrs.  Emma  H.  Nason  was  born  at  Hallowell,  Me.,  Aug.  C,  1845,  the  daughter  of  Sam 
uel  W.Huntington  and  Sally  Mayo  Huntington,  directly  descended  from  the  Rev.  John 
Mayo,  who  settled  at  Plymouth  in  1639,  the  h'rst  pastor  of  the  Second  Church,  Boston. 
Our  author  graduated  from  Collegiate  Course  at  Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary,  Kent's  Hill, 
18C5.  and  was  married  to  Mr.  Chas.  H.  Nason  of  Augusta,  in  1870.  She  began  to  write 
verses  when  a  school-girl,  and  was  Class  poet  at  graduation.  She  gave  the  commence 
ment  poem  before  the  literary  societies  of  Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary  in  1875,  3  ml  also 
read  an  original  poem  at  the  dedication  of  the  Hallowell  Library,  March  9,  1880,  which, 
with  the  oration  delivered  at  the  same  time,  was  published  in  a  dainty  souvenir  volume. 
Her  earliest  published  verse  Avas  printed  over  a  -nom  de  plume  in  the  J'ortlarid  Tran 
script-  The  h'rst  poem  published  under  her  true  name  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
—  "  The  Tower'  —  which  Avas  greatly  admired.  Mrs.  Nason  nas  been  specially  interested 
of  late  in  writing  for  young  people.  1).  Lothrop  &  Co.,  Boston,  now  have  in  press  a  col 
lection  of  her  verses  for  children,  entitled  "  Off  for  Boyland." 


UNTER  DEN  LINDEN. 

JUNE  16,  1871. 

"Victory!"     This  was  the  first  that  she  read; 
And  then,  "Heart's  dearest,"  the  soldier  had  said, 
Tracing  the  lines  in  a  faltering  way, 
"Heart's  dearest,  the  hospital  surgeons  say 
That  I  shall  be  out  of  their  hands  to-day! 
'Twas  an  ugly  wound,  but  the  danger  is  past; 
I  am  coming  to  you,  at  last — at  last! 
Unter  den  Linden!    Yes,  we  shall  be  there.! 
Come  with  a  rose  in  your  dark  shining  hair — 
Not  the  white  blossoms  you  once  used  to  wear. 
White  roses  are  meet  for  those  who  are  slain ; 
The  rich  wine-red,  for  the  welcome,  remain; 


(>96  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Red  as  our  life-blood,  and  sweet  as  the  air 
That  floated  through  Eden,  sweet  and  as  rare; 
Greet  me  with  a  wine-red  rose  in  your  Inir! 
Germania  triumphs!    Come  with  a  song! 
And  can  you,  dear  heart,  be  patient  and  strong  ? 
For  slow  is  the  crutch  and  ghastly  the  sling. 
And  gone  is  the  hand  that  once  wore  the  ring — 
Your  ring,  the  one  pledge  I  promised  to  bring; 
I  yield  them  ungrudged,  with  life  if  need  be, 
But  hold  fast  my  troth  to  country  and  thee.'' 

In  through  the  Brandenburg  gateway  they  come, 

With  clashing  of  arms  and  clangor  of  drum  ! 

Unter  den  Linden!     How  proudly  thy  shade 

Quivers  and  thrills  with  the  wild  cannonade, 

As  wild  as  the  battle's  carnival  made! 

Borne  on  its  passion  we  catch  up  the  song; 

Thrilling  and  swelling  it  thunders  along; 

Hear  it,  ye  nations,  afar  o'er  the  sea! 

"Germania  triumphs!     Germania  free — 

Free  and  united,  through  glad  victory!" 

Heroes  of  Saarbruck  and  Metz  and  Sedan, 

Tell  how  the  torrent  of  victory  ran ! 

Fair  hands  of  women  shall  bring  from  afar 

Hundreds  of  flowers  for  each  bloody  scar — 

Scars  that  far  dearer  than  rare  jewels  are. 

"Der  Kaiser  kommt!"     For  his  guardsmen,  make  wayl- 

"A  woman  struck  faint  has  fallen,"  ye  say? 

And  the  troops,  in  their  jubilant  grand  review, 

March  on  through  the  linden-grown  avenue; 

But  she  in  her  death-swoon  still  lieth  there, 

A  woman,  stone-white,  yet  passingly  fair, 

With  the  bloom  of  a  wine-red  rose  in  her  hair. 

Ah !  what  did  ye  hear  the  guardsman  had  said  ? 

"Only  a  man  in  the  hospital  dead!" 


(jlizabeth  jastuwn. 


Mrs.  Sarali  Elizabeth  Eastman  was  born  in  Columbia  S.  C.,  July  20,  1846.  In  her  sev 
enth  year,  her  father,  Mr.  Joseph  H.  Long,  moved  liis  family  to  Charleston,  and  a  few 
years  after,  to  Sumter.  in  the  same  State,  where  they  remained  until  the  close  of  the 
Civil  War.  .Mr.  Long  being  killed  by  Potter's  Raiders  April  9,  1865.  Sarah,  with  a 
younger  brother,  sought  a  home  among  relatives  in  Massachusetts,  soon  after.  In  1873 
she  was  married  to  Mr.  E.  Eugene  Eastman  of  Augusta,  Me.,  and  in  1880  moved  to  Port 
land.  which  latter  place  is  now  her  home.  Mrs.  Eastman  began  writing  poetry  about  the 
year  1880,  most  of  her  articles  being  for  children's  papers  and  periodicals. 


ANNIE  ZILPHA  MARSHALL  PL UMMER.  697 

A  VAIN  REGRET. 

Some  day  when  we  have  looked  our  last  on  some  dear  face% 

Have  closed  the  eyes,  and  tenderly  have  put  in  place 

Each  quiet,  stiffened  limb  again ; 

And  then,  when  we  have  gently  laid  in  that  last  bed 

The  still,  cold  frame,  with  flowers  about  the  head, 

And  slowly,  sorrowfully  turned  and  walked  away; 

All  through  our  after-life  some  bitter  thought  may  prey 

Upon  our  heart  with  bitter  pain : — 

Some  memory  to  make  our  grief  more  poignant  still, 

To  bow  us  low  in  anguish  and  our  days  to  fill 

With  unavailing  woe  and  deep  regret : — 

Some  hasty,  unkind  look,  or  deed,  or  word, 

Perhaps  forgotten  until  now,  when,  like  a  sword. 

Remembrance  conies  to  pierce  the  heart  with  wounds  which  yet. 

Must  with  us  ever  be,  and  never  wholly  heal. 

Time,  blessed  soother,  touches  hearts  and  stills  their  pain ; 

Cools  fevered  brows,  and  brings  us  back  our  smiles  again, — 

But  where  we  bear  such  memory  within,  it  gives 

A  saddened  tone  to  all  our  thoughts  and  ever  after  lives 

A  vain  regret  which  we  must  always  feel. 


SOMEBODY. 

Somebody  crawls  into  mamma's  bed 

Just  at  the  break  of  day, 
Snuggles  up  close  and  whispers  loud : 

"Somebody's  come  to  stay." 
Somebody  rushes  through  the  house, 

Never  once  shuts  a  door; 
Scatters  her  playthings 'all  around 

Over  the  nursery  floor; 
Climbs  on  the  fence,  and  tears  her  clothes- 

Never  a  bit  chares  she — 
Swings  on  the  gate  and  makes  mud  pies— 

Who  can  somebody  be  ? 
Somebody  looks  with  roguish  eyes 

Up  through  her  tangled  hair; 
"Somebody's  me,"  she  says,  "but  then 

Somebody  doesn't  care." 


nrzhnll     lnmmer. 


\f^nnlet  ^  n^«P1^mm?r5  eld18t  daughter  of  S.  IX  and  E.  A.  Marshall,  was  born  in  Pari8 
Me  Oct.  6,  1846,  attended  and  taught  school  till,  at  the  age  of  twenty-  one  she  married 
J.  Fellman  Plummer,  of  Sweden,  and  removed  to  the  village  of  Norway  %Ie  living 
there  five  years;  then  going  to  Essex,  Conn.,  where  she  spelt  thirteen  busy  stuS! 


Til  E  fOETS  OF  MAINE. 


years  there  being  the  birthplace  of  the  greater  number  of  her  compositions.  Failing 
health  made  a  change  of  climate  necessary,  arid  brought  her  back  to  her  native  to\vu, 
where  she  has  resided  the  past  three  years.  From  earliest  youth  she  has  had  an  intense 
love  for  poetry  and  landscape  paintings,  and  is  a  devoted  w<>.-shiper  of  the  grand  and 
beautiful  in  nature,  and  in  the  solitude  of  quiet  retreats  has  found  pure  and  sweet  sub 
jects  for  pen  and  brush. 


HILLS  OF  MAINE. 
Lofty,  cloud-capped,  rock-bound  mountains, 

Bold  ye  tower  in  grandeur  high, 
Till  your  bristling  pine-tree  summits 

Seem  to  reach  the  cloud-flecked  sky, 
Seasons  change  from  sun  to  shadow, 

And  blossoms  bud  and  fade  again, 
But  these  bulwarks  stand  forever, 

They  will  always  last  the  same. 

How  sublime,  how  full  of  wonder 

Seem  the  marble  piles  of  art, 
Yet  in  nature  how  much  greater; 

All  her  works  feed  soul  and  heart. 
Hills  and  vales  I  love  you  fondly ; 

Love  the  sound  of  every  name, 
That  each  granite  dome  is  christened, 

In  the  dear  old  State  of  Maine. 

Eloquent  teachers  are  the  mountains; 

What  sermons  preach  they  every  day, 
And  we  need  no  written  logic 

To  decipher  what  they  say. 
•Grand,  majestic,  testifying 

In  each  rock  and  grain  of  sand, 
That  like  God  they  are  everlasting, 

Built  and  fashioned  by  His  hand. 

And  the  music  of  their  brooklets, 

Rippling  o'er  low  beds  of  green, 
Brings  a  soothing  charm  and  restful, 

Like  none  other  heard,  I  ween. 
Fond  I  cherish  and  revere  you, 

For,  linked  firm  in  memory's  chain, 
Are  the  glens  and  deep  dense  wildwoods 

Of  the  dear  old  State  of  Maine. 

Resting  in  their  quiet  beauty, 

See  the  silvery  lakelets  blue, 
Mirroring  on  their  crystal  bosoms 

Your  tall  peaks,  each  form  and  hue ; 


EDWARD  WILLIAM  THOMPSON. 


And  I  reach,  I  long  to  clasp  you, 

See  your  faces  once  again, 
Rearing  high  your  heads  so  hoary; 

0  ye  grand  old  hills  of  Maine. 

I  can  see  you  when  in  autumn, 

Gauzy  veils  of  haze  seem  swung 
O'er  your  scarred  and  rough-hewn  boulders, 

Till  the  hills  and  sky  seem  one ; 
And  the  tinted  bow  of  promise 

Would  seem  faded  now  and  pale, 
Seen  beside  the  gorgeous  colors, 

Painted  over  hill  and  vale. 

I  can  see  you  when  the  sunset 

Sheds  a  golden  glory  'round, 
And  amidst  the  twilight  shadows, 

Reigns  a  stillness,  deep,  profound ; 
Till  your  forms  so  kingly,  regal, 

Stand  like  battlements  on  high, 
Fit  to  be  a  nation's  strong-hold; 

"  God's  free  hills!"  the  battle  cry. 

When  life's  last  sunset  is  fading, 

And  the  mists  are  gray  and  cold, 
Leave  me  where  those  cloud-wreathed  mountains 

May  their  shadows  round  me  fold; 
And,  methinks,  from  out  the  silence 

1  could  hear  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  the  pine-tree's  low,  sweet  sighing 
From  the  dear  old  hills  of  Maine. 


illiam  ffilwmpaon. 


Capt.  Edward  W.  Thompson  was  born  in  Raymond,  Cumberland  County,  Me.  Oct.  13 
1846.  Received  his  education  at  Oak  Grove  Seminary,  Vassalborough  and  Gorham  Sem 
inary.  Gotham.  Me.  Entered  the  army  at  sixteen,  and  was  severely  wounded  at  Win 
chester,  Va.,  Sept.  19,  1864.  while  a  member  of  the  12th  Maine  Regiment  Was  after 
wards  in  the  regular  army  on  the  northern  frontier.  He  removed  to  Lowell  Mass  in 
1808  and  has  since  resided  there.  His  first  published  poem  was  in  1872  This  was  'fol 
lowed  hv  a  campaign  lyric  which  was  very  extensively  copied,  and  which  gave  him  his 
first  impulse  to  continue  literary  work.  He  has  contributed  frequently  to  Massachusetts 
newspapers,  principally  the  Lowell  Courier,  and  was  at  one  time  on  its  editorial  staff. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  LOOM. 

On  sprays  of  birches  the  pearls  of  rain 
Gather,  and  fall,  and  gather  again, 
To  mingle  at  last  in  the  silver  rills 


700  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


That  sing  on  the  breasts  of  the  granite  hills,— 

Sing  of  the  springs  that  bubble  and  flow ; 

Sing  of  the  crystals  of  mountain  snow; 

Sing  of  the  cloud  that  crowns  the  height 

When  the  overflow  of  the  sunset  light 

On  the  dark  of  the  nimbus  paints  the  bow 

Of  the  meteor  arch  in  prismy  glow. 

In  aeons  past  the  song  was  sung, 

Ere  man  had  birth  and  the  world  was  young. 

From  the  mountain-side  to  the  ocean  sand, 

In  a  rhythm  tuned  by  the  Master's  hand, 

The  song  of  Nature  was  sung  alone, 

By  a  chorus  of  pearls  to  art  unknown. 

The  northern  springs  are  as  clear  to-day, 

The  rain-drops  shine  with  as  pure  a  ray, 

And  the  crystal  snow  gleams  white  as  when 

First  they  shone  on  the  eyes  of  men. 

But  the  river  that  bears  to  the  far-off  sea 

The  liquid  pearls  from  the  treasury 

Of  the  '"Lake  of  Isles,"  is  held  in  thrall 

By  the  art  of  man  to  rise  and  fall ; 

While  its  music  dies  in  the  wheel-pit' s'gloom, 

And  the  song  is  drowned  in  the  song  of^the  loom, 

Flying,  flying,  to  and  fro, 

Backward  and  forward  my  shuttles  go. 
Thrice  in  a  second  within  the  shed 
Of  the  warp  is  laid  the  filling  thread. 
To  the  beating  reed  the  heddles  sing, 
And  the  iron  frames  in  chorus  ring. 
Warp  and  weft;  while  round  and  round 
The  turning  beam  the  web  is  wound. 
In  triumph  strain,  in  a  march  that  plays 
Through  the  ringing  clamor  of  ringing  daysr 
While  captive  Nature  turns  the  wheel, 
The  notes  are  struck  on  chords  of  steel. 
And  this  is  the  song  of  the  busy  room, 
"The  triumph  of  art  is  the  fruit  of  the  loom." 

Flying,  flying,  to  and  fro, 

Backward  and  forward  my  shuttles  go. 
Scarcely  threescore  years  have  flown, 
But  a  town  has  flourished,  a  city  grown, 
Since  first  the  pearls  of  the  northern  hills 
Sped  my  song  in  the  echoing  mills. 
Now  to  the  strength  of  the  captive  stream 
Is  added  the  giant  arm  of  steam. 


ALICE  ELIZABETEI  RIPLEY  MAXIM.  701 

Higher  and  higher  the  strain  has  soared, 
Wealth  in  the  lap  of  Art  has  poured, 
Law,  and  order,  and  learning  meet, 
Business  throbs  in  the  busy  street. 
Rise  homes  of  comfort  and  spires  that  tell 
The  temples  of  worship.     All  is  well. 

Flying,  flying,  to  and  fro, 

Backward  and  forward  my  shuttles  go. 
" Dwell  in  the  lay,"  O  shuttle  mine! 
Pause  one  beat  in  the  cadenced  line ! 
There  were  days  when  my  song  was  still, 
Days  of  dread,  when  each  silent  mill 
Stared  from  its  windows  and  only  saw 
The  fear  and  sorrow  born  of  war; 
Saw  men  who  had  walked  their  busy  floors 
Marching  away  from  their  closed  doors, 
With  stern,  set  faces,  to  join  the  strife, 
To  battle  and  die  for  the  nation's  life, 
To  write  on  the  future  yet  to  be — 
"Labor  is  loyal,  it  shall  be  free." 

Flying,  flying,  to  and  fro, 

Backward  and  forward  my  shuttles  go. 
Fifty  years  my  song  I  have  sung 
Since  the  natal  bells  of  the  city  rung. 
And  that  song  to-day  is  a  song  of  pride, 
For  in  every  land,  on  the  ocean  wide, 
Its  name  is  known;  in  every  mart 
Is  stored  the  product  of  its  art; 
And  where  the  record  of  men  you  find 
Who  have  served  their  country  and  their  kind, 
With  sword  or  pen,  with  voice  and  heart, 
Lowell  has  there  an  honored  part. 
By  busy  mills  that  sing  and  sing, 
By  engine  stroke  and  anvil's  ring, 
It  has  writ  in  fabric,  and  steel,  and  wood — 
"Art  is  the  handmaid  of  human  good." 


Daughter  of  Orison  and  Hannah  Ripley,  and  born  in  Paris,  Jan.  7, 1847.  "  God  Bless 
our  Native  Hills,"  sang  at  the  Centennial  of  the  town,  was  written  by  her;  also  a  Memo 
rial  Hymn,  both  of  which  were  set  to  music  by  her  brother,  Wintteld  Scott  Kipley,  of 
Boston. 


702  THE  POETS  OF  NAME. 


DIP  THE  FLAG  KEVRENTLY. 

Strew  flowers  lovingly  over  each  grave, 
Where  lies  the  dust  of  the  patriot  brave; 
Salute  with  the  flag  each  mound  where  they  rest, 
They  died  at  their  duty,  each  doing  his  best; 
And  their  spirits,  arisen,  are  marching  to-day 
In  the  Great  Grand  Army,  just  over  the  way. 

CHORUS. 

Dip  the  flag  rev'rently  over  each  grave. 
Comrades,  they  died  our  loved  country  to  save. 

With  us  they  trod  the  red  fields  of  the  South, 
And  with  us  they  faced  the  cannon's  dread  mouth; 
Suffered  with  sickness,  with  hunger  and  cold, 
Can  we  forget  them,  our  comrades  of  old  ? 
Never!  our  heaits  beat  as  warmly  to-day 
As  when,  side  by  side,  we  joined  in  the  fray. 

CHORUS-. 

God  bless  the  soldiers  who  fought  in  the  blue, 

'N"eath  heaven's  own  color  beat  hearts  warm  and  true; 

Wherever  they  are,  be  they  living  or  dead, 

Time  weaves  fresh  laurels  for  each  honored  head. 

Yearly  they're  passing  to  heaven's  bright  bowers, 

And  yearly  love  covers  their  new  graves  with  flowers. 

CHOKUS. 

God  bless  the  soldiers  who  fought  in  the  gray, 
Whatever  we've  been,  we  are  brothers  to-day; 
Cast  out  of  our  hearts  all  hardness  and  pride, 
For  one  common  country,  we  work  side  by  side, 
Whatever  their  faults,  we  forgive  them  to-day, 
Strewing  sweet  flowers  o'er  the  blue  and  the  gray. 

CHORUS. 

Dip  the  flag  rev'rently  over  each  grave. 
Comrades,  they  died  our  loved  country  to  save. 


(reene. 


Clara  Marcelle  Greene  -wife  of  Mr.  "\Vyer  Greene,rof  Portland,  Me.—  is  a  native  of 
Bucfcfield,  Me.,  and  djiughtfr  of  T>ra.  David  Farrar.  She  is  a  great-granddaughter  of 
Anna  rrosman  Smith,  and  relative  of  Seba  Smith,  both  of  whose  names  appear  m  this 
volume.  Mrs.  Greene's  early  work  appeared  under  the  nom  deplume  of  "Kate  Ken 
dall  "  She  opened  an  art  studio  in  Portland,  1870,  which  she  occupied  successfully  lor 
three  years,  until  her  marriage.  Some  of  her  work  has  been  praised  for  its  dramatic 
quality,  particularly  "  Possession"  and  the  "Magdalen,"  the  last  having  been  brought 
to  the  'platform  by  several  dramatic  readers. 


CLARA  MARCELLE  GREEN  W.  703 

THE  MAGDALENY 

My  beautiful  lilies  down  under  the  snow, 

Hasten  not,  waken  slow 

From  your  dreaming !    For  O, 
I  dread  the  bright  summer  with  gossamer  wings 
Which  over  your  brows  a  diadem  flings 
Of  perfumed  white  petals,  as  pure  as  is  meet, 
While  low  at  your  feet,  darlings,  low  at  your  feet 

This  heart  will  be  lying! 

Would  God  it  were  dying 
And  sleeping  in  peace  with  you  under  the  snow! 

Yet,  O  beautiful  things,  but  a  summer  ago, 

Listen  low,  listen  low! 

You  remember  I  know 
Each  morning  how  gayly  I  lifted  you  up 
And  dared  to  look  into  each  virginal  cup 
Face  to  face  with  your  pureness;  I  flung  back  as  pure 
A  look  as  you  gave  ma — -God!  can  I  endure! 

My  step  was  the  lightest, 

My  soul  was  the  'whitest, 
And  life  was  on  wings  but  a  summer  ago. 

But  my  pathway  o'erran  with  the  green  myrtle  vine 

So  tender  it  seemed 

T  never  had  dreamed 

It  would  tangle  and  leave  me  so  cruelly  bound,— 
That  a  hand  from  caressing  so  quickly  could  wound 
With  a  stab  to  the  heart.     O  that  I  had  died, 
When  a  pure  little  child,  and  slept  cold  at  the  side 

Of  my  sweet  young  dead  mother, 

Whose  love  and  no  other 
Would  bear  011  her  bosom  such  anguish  as  mine! 

0  Sleep!  with  two  hands  crossing  over  a  breast! 

The  garments  I  covet 

A  white  shroud — above  it 
A  green  quilt  all  daisy-starred— no!  such  as  I 
Have  no  name  cut  in  marble  to  tell  where  they  lie, 

1  flee  like  a  hunted  thing — Where  can  I  hide  ? 
Heaven's  mercy!— I  see  now— there  runs  a  dark  tider 

Yes !  yes !  the  black  river, 
For  sorrows  are  never 
So  wild  but  it  hushes  and  lulls  them  to  rest! 


704  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  O  my  sweet  darlings  down  under  the  snow. 

When  you  wake  you  will  know, 

And  will  miss  me,  dears,  so, 

By  the  grasses  untrocl,  and  the  paths  unimpressed, 
By  the  sparrows  unfed,  by  my  dog  uncaressed, 
By  the  hash  of  the  still  air  which  erst  and  ere-while 
Was  liquid  with  laughter  and  song  without  guile. 

On  the  black  flowing  river 

The  sunlight  will  shiver, 
And  then  you  will  know,  darlings,  O  you  will  know! 

Life,  life,  is  thy  bitterness  ever  redressed  ? 

Is  there  any  heaven  ? 

Are  sins  ever  forgiven  ? 

Comes  white  in  the  next  world  what  turned  black  in  this  ? 
Hush,  heart!  thou  shalt  know  e'er  day  dawns  all  that  is. 
O  river,  be  kind,  though  thy  bosom  be  cold. 
Let  me  sleep  well  and  long  in  thy  passionless  hold. 

From  Tantalus  fly  not ! 

O  Lethe,  deny  not 
Thy  boon  of  oblivion,— rest,  give  me  rest! 


And  now,  while  the  madness  is  gathering  stark, 

Do  thou,  my  soul,  hark ! 

If  down  through  the  dark 
God's  mercy  may  whisper  at  last,  and  so  late, 
That  I  go  not  unshrived  and  accursed  to  my  fate. 
One  last  moment,  one,  my  poor  eyes  from  the  ground 
Uplift  them  to  heaven,  awaiting  that  sound. 

Will  no  angel  speak 

This  death-spell  to  break  ? 
Still— still  as  the  grave— like  the  grave  all  is  dark! 

Are  they  weeping,  those  lilies  down  under  the  snow  ? 

I  can  hear  them,  I  know, 

And  I  love  them,  but  O 

Mine  eyes  are  as  dry  as  the  dust  without  rain. 
And  the  drouth  of  my  heart  scorches  up  in  my  brain. 
My  sight  swims  in  blackness— strange  frenzy  I  feel, 
I  swoon— the  sky  wavers— my  racked  senses  reel ! 

Is  this  mortal  immortal  ? 

O  Death,  swing  thy  portal 
Wide,  wide  to  receive  me! — Christ  pity  me— so! 


CLAEA  MARCELLE  GREENE.  705 


AT  OLD  ORCHARD  BEACH. 

A  year  ago  the  moon,  as  now, 

Crossed  the  sea  with  a  silver  shoe ; 

Along  the  beach,  subdued  and  slow, 
Dusky  figures  went,  two  by  two. 

Two  by  two  with  foreheads  bare, 

Half  were  women,  and  half  were  men; 

Half  were  gallant,  and  half  were  fair, 
Others  are  here  to-night  as  then. 

Treacherous  all,  O  passionless  beach  ? 

Earnest  ever,  O  listening  shore  ? 
Give  your  secret,  nor  voice,  nor  speech, 

Hold  it  dumbly  for  evermore ! 

Forth  from  the  dazzle,  and  heat,  and  glare 

Of  thronged  halls  to  the  wakeful  sea, 
Strains  of  waltzes  haunting  the  air 
The  while  from  window  and  balcony, 

Tripped  the  light  feet  down  full  fain, 

Out  free  under  the  bending  sky; 
We  thought  you  women,  we  fond  blind  men, 

We  moths,  with  the  fire  and  pain  so  nigh. 

Had  we  not  seen  your  lips  aglow, 
And  with  what  seemed  a  breath  dispart  ? 

We  thought  what  shook  your  jewels  so 
Was  the  beating  of  a  living  heart. 

Were  we  dazed,  demented,  that  nightly  there, 
We  dreamed  of  truth  by  that  solemn  sea  ? 

Once,  and  for  only  once,  how  did  you  dare 
To  be  other  than  true  to  your  soul  and  to  me ! 

Two  by  two  along  the  sands 

Going  to-morrow  on  separate  ways, 

Did  half  of  them  walk  with  both  white  hands 
On  an  arm,  as  yours  on  mine,  and  gaze 

Wistfully  out  on  the  mystic  sea 

With  broken  syllables  half  confessed  ? 
Vague  words  meaning  so  easily 
All,  or  nothing,  as  suits  you  best ! 

Did  half  of  them  droop  their  tender  eyes 
Dewy  and  dusk,  as  yours  'neath  mine, 


706  THE  POET '8  OP  MAINE. 

Looking  the  sweetest  of  all  sweet  lies, 
Dragging  us  down  to  the  death,  in  line  ? 

Down,  down,  down  to  the  death! 

Small  comfort  that  others  have  gone  before. 
O  that  all  stone  were  void  of  breath, 

That  men  might  never  mistake  it  more! 

Sparks  of  rubies,  diamonds  rare, 
Burned  on  bosoms  with  restless  fire, 

Under  the  lovely  disheveled  hair, 
Maddening  men  with  a  strange  desire, 

Till  passionate  vows  were  purely  said, 
With  low  beseeching  for  sweet  replies; 

But  women  turn  cold  when  love  goes  mad, 
And  calm  and  mute  with  a  feigned  surprise. 

So  did  half  of  them  glide  away, 

In  spirit  out  of  the  others1  reach, 
Intangibly  as  the  tide  to-day 

Slid  from  the  arms  of  the  longing  beach! 

If,  like  you,  they  leant  and  lingered 

Crowned  with  their  fortunate  diadems; 

Bent  low,  listening,  idle-fingered, 

Snapping  the  slender  jessamine  stems, 

Till  the  brave,  brave  words  had  all  been  spoken; 

Till  every  drop  of  the  cup  divine 
Was  poured;  till  the  seal  of  each  heart  lay  broken,. 
Wrenched,  and  flung  at  their  feet,  like  mine! 

Were  you  and  I  on  the  strand,  I  say, 
But  types  of  all  who  wandered  there  ? 

Then  half  smile  on  in  the  sun  to-day, 
And  half  are  cursing  the  life  they  bear. 

O  lonely  sea!     O  listening  shore! 

O  bending  skies,  ye  are  hollow,  too! 
And  the  moon  is  a  wraith  for  evermore 

Crossing  the  sea  with  a  fierv  shoe ! 


Mary  E.  J.  Mayo— maiden  name  Mary  E.  Johnson— was  born  in  Bluehill,  Me.,  Aug.  24, 
1847.  She  attended  district  school  and'  Bluehill  Academy,  taught  in  the  public  schools-, 
for  seventeen  years,  enjoying  the  work  very  much.  She  has  given  considerable  atten 
tion  to  the  study  of  music,  taking  lessons  of  resident  teachers,  of  teachers  in  Augusta 
and  Boston.  Mass.;  has  been  engaged  in  giving  lessons,  vocal  and  instrumental,  moro  or 


MAR  Y  E.  J.  MA  YO.  707 


less  of  the  time  since  she  was  thirteen  years  of  age.  She  has  served  on  Superintending 
School  Committee  of  her  native  town,  and  has  cooperated  in  most  all  leading  work  for 
the  public  good.  Was  married  to  Mr.  Mayo  some  few  years  ago.  has  two  children 
who  call  for  considerable  attention.  In  her  happy  home  she  has  constant  calls  to  write 
for  public  occasions,  lyceums,  school  papers,  etc.  Two  years  ago  she  published  two  pieces 
of  memorial  music,  words  and  music,  which  have  met  with  very  good  acceptance.  She 
contributed  many  of  her  compositions  to  the  StMioan  Bulletin  during  the  three  years  it 
was  published. 

TYPES. 
A  happy,  gliding  rill 

Flows  along  to  the  gladsome  sea, 
With  a  merry,  musical  chime, 

Like  a  rippling  melody. 

A  foaming,  dashing  brook, 

Darkling  under  laden  skies, 
With  a  turbulent  rush  and  roar, 

To  the  heaving  ocean  flies. 

A  slow  and  quiet  stream, 

With  a  graceful  but  stately  sweep, 
Winds  silently  on  its  way, 

To  join  the  waves  of  the  deep. 

A  shallow,  babbling  fall 

Goes  tinkling  over  the  ledge, 
With  a  voluble,  blithesome  song, 

Till  it  nears  the  water's  edge. 

A  river  wide  and  grand 

Rolls  on  in  its  glowing  strength, 
Unchecked  by  the  tide  or  wind, 

And  reaches  the  main  at  length. 

Like  various,  flowing  streams 

Are  the  human  lives  we  see, 
Till  they  blend  with  the  ocean  broad 

Of  the  vast  eternity. 


INDECISION. 
How  oft  in  life  we  reach  the  place 

Where  two  ways  seem,  to  meet ; 
And  while  in  deep  suspense  we  wait, 

Time  moves  with  hurrying  feet. 

It  sweeps  us  past  the  Possible, 
We  write  with  tears  "•  too  late,"" 

Then  charge  our  folly  and  unrest 
To  blind  and  cruel  Fate. 


708  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


aher 


unn. 

Mrs.  Mattie  Baker  Dunn  was  born  in  Hallowell,  and  is  the  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Henry 
K.  Baker,  of  that  city.  She  was  educated  in  the  common  schools  of  her  native  place, 
and  in  the  Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary  at  Kent's  Hill.  In  September,  1873,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  K.  Wesley  Dunn,  of  Waterville,  in  which  city  she  still  resides.  Mrs.  Dunn  has 
exercised  her  literary  talents  chiefly  for  the  gratification  of  her  family  and  friends, 
although  a  number  of  her  short  poems  have  been  published  in  the  local  press. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
"  What  shall  we  do  for  the  children  ?" 

The  question  had  pressed  us  long — 
At  morning  and  noon  they  gathered, 

A  merry  and  fair-faced  throng; 
From  the  happy  homes  of  plenty, 

From  the  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
Bright-eyed,  intent  and  eager, 
"     They  thronged  the  school-room  door, 
And  the  walls  grew  strait  to  hold  them 

Till  we  asked,  with  anxious  frown : 
"  What  shall  we  do  for  the  children, 

The  promise  and  flower  of  the  town?" 

So  we  said  to  the  master-builder : 

"O  craftsman,  apt  and  skilled! 
Our  town,  with  thought  for  the  future, 

Hath  in  its  wisdom  willed 
That  you  shall  build  for  the  children 

A  mansion  spacious  and  tall; 
Four-square  like  the  heavenly  city; 

With  stair  and  turret  and  hall, 
With  windows  looking  skyward, 

North,  south,  and  east  and  west, 
Build  firm  and  strong,  O  master! 

O  workmen  build  your  best! 
Build  for  the  bright-faced  children 

That  smile  in  your  eyes  to-day — 
Build  for  the  unborn  children, 

In  years  that  are  far  away! 

"Out  of  the  solemn  quarries 

Where  Nature,  never  at  rest, 
Shapeth  the  mighty  granite 

Hid  in  the  green  earth's  breast; 
Where  sun  and  rain,  and  fusion 

Of  elemental  fire, 
Work  miracles  forever 

At  her  supreme  desire, 


MATT  IE  BAKER  DUNN.  709 


Cut  from  the  solid  boulders 
The  firm  foundation  stone, 

The  house  on  a  rock  that  is  builded 
Shall  ne'er  be  overthrown. 

u  Where  ranks  of  stately  pine-trees 

In  earth's  primeval  lands, 
Toward  the  lonely  mountain 

Stretch  out  their  waving  hands; 
Hew  down  the  forest-monarchs, 

For  the  fertile  earth  below 
Hath  yielded  richest  juices 

Within  their  veins  to  flow. 
The  lonely  lakes  shall  speed  us, 

The  mountain  torrents  still 
Shall  aid  us  with  their  currents, 

The  rivers  work  our  will, 
Till  the  huge  trunks  dismantled, 

In  timbers  great  and  small, 
Shall  shape  our  beams  and  rafters, 

Shall  fashion  stair  and  hall. 

"With  brick  from  smoking  brickyard, 

With  iron  from  the  mines, 
The  walls  shall  spring  by  magic 

In  straight  and  shapely  lines; 
With  sound  of  hammer  and  chisel, 

With  workmen's  cheerful  cries, 
The  house  we  build  for  the  children 

In  beauty  shall  arise, 
With  here  an  arching  doorway, 

And  here  a  turret  tower, 
We  see  the  thought  that  shaped  it 

Grow  in  it  every  hour, 
Till  looking  north  ward  ever 

We  set  the  carven  face 
Of  him,  the  mightiest  master 

In  all  the  human  race. 
O  keen,  calm  eyes  of  Shakespeare ! 

Not  ancient  Stratford  town, 
But  our  fair,  new-world  city 

Beholds  you  looking  down; 
Those  dumb  lips  say:  'Remember! 

The  teeming,  restless  brain 
Is  still  the  potent  factor 

For  human  joy  or  pain; 


710  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

And  you  who  would  mould  and  shape  it, 

Make  for  eternity 
An  impress  like  the  circles 

That  widen  on  the  sea!'" 

Finished  at  last — our  school-house — 

The  workman's  hammers  dumb, 
And  bare  of  msinories  it  stands, 

Its  story  all  to  come. 
Yet  we  to-night  who  view  it, 

In  structure  now  complete, 
Hear  through  the  years  the  echoes 

Of  all  the  coming  feet; 
For  vainly  mister  builded, 

And  vainly  workman  wrought, 
If  we  build  not  in  human  lives, 

And  shipa  in  hum  in  thought; 
And  vainly  hath  the  mason 

Laid  the  foundation  stone, 
If  we  our  superstructure  rear 

Of  brick  and  wood  alone. 
Unless  when  mister's  brain  is  dust, 

And  workmen's  tools  at  rest, 
When  skill  that  planned,  and  hand  that  wrought 

To  silence  are  addressed, 
The  future  shall  by  wisest  zeal 

And  nobler  impulse  tell, 
In  tones  tint  sound  across  the  years: 

"Behold,  you  builded  well!" 


Allen 'Walton  Gould  was  born  in  Athens,  Me.,  Nov.  21,  1847.  In  1850  his  parents 
removed  to  Skoirhegan,  where  he  spent  his  boyhood,  and  WHS  fitted  for  college.  He 
graduated  from  Harvard  in  1872.  He  taught  the  classics  in  his  alm-i  m'it>>r  for  the  next 
nine  years,  with  the  exception  of  one  year  which  he  spent  in  Germany,  studying  Latin 
and  Greek.  Since  1883  he  has  been  tilling  the  professorship  of  Latin  in  Olivet  College, 
Michigan. 

TRANSFIGURED. 

Swift  o'er  the  sparkling  sea, 

Un  ler  the  suramor  sun, 
Her  white  wings  to  the  breeze  spread  free, 

Our  graceful  boat  flew  on. 

Slowly  across  our  course 
A  barque  deep-laden  crept; 


ALLEN  WALTON  GOULD.  711 

Full  many  a  mark  of  time  and  storm 
Her  hull  and  canvas  kept. 

But  when  the  western  wave 

Glowed  with  the  dying  day, 
Darkling  we  sped  -white-robed  and  fair 

On  heaven's  brim  she  lay, 

Wrapt  in  celestial  light, 

Transfigured,  like  the  soul 
That  dons  its  heavenly  raiments  when 

Life's  evening  gates  unroll. 

On  us  death's  shadows  fall, 

While  the  worn  face  grows  bright, 
Catching  the  glow  of  endless  dawn 

Across  our  gathering  night. 


REVISITED. 

Sadly  my  heart  is  drifting  to-day 

With  the  lad  who  sailed,  at  the  break  of  clay, 

From  the  port  where  he  was  born ; 
Watching  its  roofs  and  steeples  gleam, 
Faint  and  more  faint,  like  a  beauteous  dream, 
That  vanishes  with  the  morn. 

And  sailing  home  in  the  ebbing  light, 
Nor  steeple  nor  roof  met  his  eager  sight 

Of  the  port  where  he  was  born; 
But  barren  and  bleak  lay  the  homeless  shore, 
And  the  dark  waves  rolled  with  a  sullen  roar 

O'er  the  paths  his  feet  had  worn. 

For  down,  far  down  in  the  desolate  deep, 
Lay  the  buried  town  in  its  endless  sleep, 

The  port  where  he  was  born ; 
And  glimmering  faint  in  the  spectral  gloom, 
Its  nodding  shapes  seemed  to  beckon  him  home, 
While  the  waves  leaped  high  in  scorn. 

So  once  sailed  I,  in  the  morning's  glow, 
O'er  the  ocean  of  life,  with  its  ebbless  flow, 

From  the  port  where  I  was  born; 
And  drifting  home  in  the  twilight  gray, 
O  where  is  the  town  that  glorious  lay 

In  the  magic  light  of  morn  ? 


712  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Far  down  in  the  swelling  tide  of  years 
Faintly  the  wavering  image  appears 

Of  the  town  where  I  was  born ; 
And  vague  and  dim,  through  the  forms  I  meet, 
I  see  the  forms  that  I  fain  would  greet, 

In  the  glimmering  depths  forlorn. 

And  faces  and  voices,  of  old  that  I  knew, 
But  mock  me  afar,  as  I  wander  through 

The  town  where  I  was  born; 
For  the  year-long  billows  are  rolling  between 
My  heart  and  the  pathways,  bordered  with  green 

That  my  childish  feet  had  worn. 


jjnm  §.  jjerham  |tw?//. 

Sara  E.  (Perham)  Lowell  was  born  in  Wilton,  Me.,  -Ian.  9.  1840.  She  early  evinced  & 
great  love  for  books,  ami  attended  a  term  of  school  at  the  age  of  three  and  a  half  years. 
She  received  simply  a  common-school  education  with  the  addition  of  a  few  terms  of  High 
School.  Her  first  literary  venture  was  sent  to  the  Kennebec  Journal  when  she  was  fif 
teen,  since  which  time  she  has  been  a  contributor  to  several  papers  in  Maine  and  other 
States.  In  1861  she  was  married  to  Benj.  F.  Lowell,  who  died  in  1882.  She  now  resides 
in  East  Wilton. 


LEND  A  HELPING  HAND. 

If  you  see  a  friend  despondent 

'Neath  the  cares  and  ills  of  life, 
If  he  wears  a  face  of  sadness 

As  if  weary  in  the  strife, 
Speak  a  word  of  hearty  kindness, 

Greet  him  with  a  handclasp  warm, 
Let  your  smile  be  like  the  sunshine 

Breaking  through  the  clouds  and  storm. 

If  you  see  a  fallen  brother 

Trampled  by  the  passing  crowd, 
No  one  heeding — no  one  caring 

For  the  heart  so  scorned  and  bowed, 
Do  not  harshly  chide  and  judge  him, 
Lend  to  him  a  helping  hand, 
Help  him  to  assert  his  manhood 
And  among  his  fellows  stand. 

O  how  quick  we  are  in  judgment 
And  how  prone  we  are  to  chide, 

With  cold  looks  and  gathered  garments 
Passing  to  the  other  side, 


SARA  E.  PEE II AM  LOWELL.  713 

When  we  ought  with  Christly  kindness 

To  lift  up  the  fallen  one, 
And  by  prayers  and  deeds  to  help  him 

Other  pitfalls  deep  to  shun. 

"  O  the  woes  that  we  might  lighten!" 

O  the  tears  that  we  might  dry! 
"  O  the  homes  that  we  might  brighten!" 

As  the  days  pass  swiftly  by, — 
If  we  would  but  stop  and  ponder 

On  the  good  that  we  might  do, 
And  with  loving  hearts  endeavor 

To  our  conscience  to  be  true! 


IF  I  COULD  KNOW. 

If  I  could  only  look  within  the  gate 

That  shuts  th>e  blessed  from  our  longing  vision, 

If  I  could  look  upon  their  sinless  state 
And  hear  the  songs  that  float  o'er  fields  elysian, — - 

If  I  could  know  they  do  not  quite  forget 

This  earth-life  and  our  love  so  true  and  tender, — 

That  sometimes  when  our  eyes  with  tears  are  wet 
They  turn  away  from  all  their  heavenly  splendor, 

To  lay  upon  our  hearts  a  touch  of  balm, — 
A  breath  of  heaven  to  cheer  us  in  our  sadness, 

And  in  the  hush  of  midnight's  holy  calm 
They  chant  their  songs  to  lure  our  souls  to  gladness, — 

If  I  could  see  them  walk  the  golden  streets 

Bearing  no  trace  of  care,  or  pain  or  sorrow— 
Or  as  they  bow  in  love  at  Jesus'  feet 
Encircled  by  the  light  that  from  His  brow  they  borrow, 

I  think  it  would  not  be  so  hard  to  bear 
The  grief  that  now  my  heart  is  breaking, 

If  I  could  know  they  love  us  still,  and  there 
They  long  to  greet  us  to  their  blissful  waking. 

If  I  could  know!    O  weary  questioning! 

Can  I  not  trust  my  Father's  love  so  tender  ? 
"  I  shall  be  satisfied" — to  this  I  cling, 

And  all  my  doubts  and  fears  to  Him  surrender. 

47 


714  TllK  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


elm  <jj$<irr  jjjnrd. 


Miss  Helen  M.  Hurd,  author  of  an  illustrated  volume  of  poems,  published  by  B.  B. 
Russell,  1S87,  was  born  in  Harmony,  Conn.,  and  was  one  of  a  family  of  six  girls  and  a 
boy.  Her  father,  [saiah  Hurd,  2d.,  was  a  native  of  Harmony,  the  town  receiving  its  name 
from  his  m>tiier.  Oaf  author's  mother  w  is  Miry  Pa^e,  closely  related  to  the  images  and 
Walls  of  rfalloxvell  an  I  A.ugust-1,  Aid.  Miss  Hurd  bag  in  to  turn  her  attention  towards 
literature  at  an  early  age,  and  she  determined  to  succeed  in  acquiring  knowledge.  A 
very  troublesome  and  discouraging  Impediment  to  her  progress  was  severe  myopia,  bur, 
by  perseverance  she  titted  herself  to  become  a  teacher,  and  was  successful  in  that  voca 
tion  -teaching  souu  thirty  schools  —until  cvnpalled  by  inrreased  trouble  with  her  eyes 
to  give  up  her  professional  duties.  Sines  then  she  has  devoted  her  whole  time  to  liter 
ary  pursuits,  receiving  a  good  share  of  sympathy  and  favor.  She  now  resides  at  Skow- 
hegan. 


KEEP  COOL. 

Somewhere  upon  a  busy,  stone-paved  street 
Of  an  old  town  which  sat  in  regal  state 

Amid  the  hills,  in  gifts  of  wealth  complete, 
There  lived  an  aged,  irous  potentate. 

Time  which  he  oft  misused  and  oft  misspent, 
Yengeance  had  brought;  upon  his  naked  head 

Were  many  ills;  his  cumbrous  form  was  bent, 
And  gout  its  tortures  through  his  system  sped. 

His  household  feared  his  face,  yet  served  him  more 
Than  aught  they  loved;  the  serving  maid  and  man 

Full  dread  and  hatred  for  their  master  bore, 
Yet  to  fulfil  his  mandates  swiftly  ran. 

One  proverb  in  his  lesser  years  he  flung 

At  all  who  vexed  broke  forth  and  played  the  fool; 

And  it  was  this,  "  Howe'er  by  passion  stung, 
'Tis  policy  and  wisdom  to  keep  cool." 

And  while  years  of  young  manhood  told  his  age, 
Ere  not  good  habits  had  despoiled  his  health, 

In  tribulations,  steadfast,  cool  and  sage 
Before  the  world,  he  raved  and  swore  by  stealth. 

And  now,  the  habits  of  his  earlier  years 
Thrust  themselves  out  upon  his  later  days; 

An rl  as  his  many  plagues  their  full  arrears 
Presented,  stealthy  faults  were  open  ways. 

pain,  anger,  or  just  the  least  offence, 
Or  smallest  contradiction  checked  his  will, 
With  whom  he  did  contend  they  lived  suspense 
Until  his  fearful  passion-storm  was  still. 


HEL  EN  MA  R  R  HURD.  715 

No  tongue  of  all  his  household  dared  reprove, 

Nothing  within  his  presence  dared  rebel, 
Or  counter  to  his  wishes  dared  to  move, 

Except  the  prating  parrot,  saucy  Pell. 

He  was  his  favorite,  ere  his  head  was  bald, 

And  many  mottoes  he  had  learned  at  school 
He'd  taught  to  him;  and  one  his  voice  extolled 

As  daily  by-word;  it  was  this:  "Keep  cool." 

Now,  when  Satan,  through  habit  and  disease, 

Pronounced  that  he  should  serve  him  as  a  tool, 
Sagacious  Pell,  the  household  pet  and  tease. 

Riifnod  his  plumes,  looked  wise,  and  said,  "Keep  cool." 

Impatiently  his  wit  his  master  bore 

As  harder  raged  his  ills ;  and  when  one  noon 
His  gout  was  dreadful,  Pell  was  pert,  and  swore, 

And  said,  "Keep  cool,  and  screech  not  like  a  loon." 

Without  a  word  the  tortured  man  arose 

In  fearful  wrath,  and  cherished,  petted  Pell 
Was  held  a  moment  by  his  neck  quite  close, 

Then  from  the  shutter  to  the  pavement  fell. 

"There,"  hissed  the  master,  "now  be  still,  you  pest! 

You've  mocked  me  quite  enough;  your  broken  neck 
You  earned."     Helpless,  the  stones  the  poor  bird  pressed, 

Then  stirred,  stood  up,  tottered,  began  to  peck. 

A  bit  of  fruit  upon  the  paving  stone 

Had  caught  his  eye  as  strangled  life  returned; 
Slowly  he  ate,  as  though  the  twisted  bone 

In  his  gay  throat  was  sore,  and  ached  and  burned. 

But  cool  and  dignified  he  stood,  nor  looked 

Upward  where  mad  the  potentate  looked  down 
Enraged  and  baffled;  the  hooked  beak  more  hooked 

Appeared,  and  more  erect  the  saucy  crown. 

Tongs,  ottomans  and  books  the  mad  man  threw, 

Savage  with  the  intent  the  bird  to  kill; 
But  Pell  beyond  his  reach  slowly  withdrew, 

Holding  the  fruit  quite  coolly  in  his  bill. 

The  enraged  man  glared,  clenched  his  fingers  tight, 
And  might  have  burst  with  potent,  angry  spleen; 

When  round  the  corner,  hard  toward  the  right, 
Creeping  at  stealthy  pace,  old  puss  was  seen. 


716  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

A  gleeful  chuckle  from  the  man  had  vent, 
And,  gloating  on  revenge,  he  watched  the  cat 

As  crouching  tiger-like  she  slyly  went 

With  lashing  tail,  raised  nose,  and  ears  laid  flat. 

Near  old  puss  came,  nearer,  but  Pell  stirred  not; 

He  slowly  pecked  and  ate  the  luscious  fruit; 
Nor  glance  of  eye  a  fear  of  being  caught 

Betrayed,  nor  knowledge  that  he  saw  the  brute. 

Nearer  crept  puss;  by  feline  habit  led 

She  paused  half-crouched,  her  tail  its  lashing  ceased ; 
Then,  quick  as  lightning,  on  the  feline's  head 

Pell  struck  his  beak,  and  screamed  out,  "  Scat,  you  beast." 

In  sudden  terror  puss  whirled  from  her  prey 
With  bristling  tail  and  round  the  corner  flew, 

Like  something  with  winged  feet;  Pell  turned  away 
And  coolly  did  Ms  feast  of  fruit  renew. 

The  potentate  in  gusts  of  laughter  roared, 

Unmindful  of  sciatica  or  gout; 
Wide-eyed  his  folks  into  his  presence  poured, 

To  learn  what  all  the  uproar  was  about. 

Then  ordered  the  great  man  a  golden  cage, 
With  triple  roost  and  silver  tank  and  stool, 

For  Pell,  the  only  thing  he'd  seen  so  sage 
As  to  keep,  in  vast  trials,  grandly  cool. 


Miss  Emily  "W.  Peakes  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Benjamin  H.  Peakes.  She  was  born 
in  Harmony,  Me.,  Dec.  1,  1847  Besides  the  common  town  school,  she  was  educated  at 
Oak  Grove  High  School  and  Westbrook  Seminary,  where  she  graduated  in  1874,  the  first 
scholar  in  her  class.  She  has  taught  in  the  schools  of  Kova  Scotia,  in  the  villages  of 
Somerset  County,  and  in  Portland.  Her  home,  since  1875,  has  been  in  Indiana,  where 
she  has  been  an  accomplished  teacher.  She  is  now  teacher  of  literature  in  the  High 
Schools  of  Terre  Haute.  IVliss  Peakes  is  a  person  of  much  energy.  Her  manners  are 
lively  and  pleasing,  and  strangers  at  once  see  that  they  are  in  the  presence  of  a  sensible, 
amiable  and  gifted  woman,  and  on  parting  with  her  will  soon  wish  to  meet  her  again. 

IN  SCHOOL— A  PERFUME. 
I  close  my  eyes,  and  the  lilac's  perfume 
Has  borne  me  away  from  this  crowded  room 

Under  northern  skies  where  the  flowers  are  late 
And  this  plumy  branch  for  the  June  must  wait. 

A  farm-house  stands  from  the  road  aloof, 
With  the  mountain-ash  against  its  roof. 


JOHN  ADAMS  BELLOWS.  717 


There  's  a  bridge  in  front  that  crosses  a  brook 
Where  the  spotted  trout  hides  away  from  the  hook; 

And  a  winding  road,  with  a  double  ridge 
Of  grass,  comes  down  the  hill  to  the  bridge. 

Close  by  the  door  twin  lilac-trees 

Breathe  a  sweet  good-morning  to  every  breeze; 

A  group  of  children  with  happy  look 
Are  lingering  here  with  basket  and  book. 

Why  do  they  wait?    There's  one  little  creature 
Wants  a  lilac-flower  to  give  to  the  teacher; 

She  must  have  the  very  highest  one 

That  no  one  can  reach — and  what's  to  be  done  ? 

For  the  longest  arm  comes  short  of  the  prize 
That  bends  and  beckons  before  her  eyes; 

But  she  saw  papa  coming  up  through  the  clover, 
A  strong,  tall  man;  see!  he  lifts  her  over 

The  heads  of  the  group  that  around  him  stand, 
And  she  breaks  the  branch  with  her  chubby  hand. 

What  was  1  saying  ? — I  open  my  eyes; 
Why,  I  am  the  teacher  supposed  to  be  wise; 

One  instant  ago  't  was  a  six  year-old 

Who  smelled  of  the  lilac,  and  my  father's  hold 

Was  strong  around  me:  the  years  and  death 
Were  swept  away  by  the  lilac's  breath. 


Jb/m 


.  John  A.  Bellows,  a  son  of  Henry  A.  and  Catherine  Bellows,  was  born  in  Little 
ton,  N.  H.,  May  27,  1843.  He  entered  Dartmouth  College  in  1868,  and  graduated  in  1870. 
with  a  poem  on  Commencement  Day,  and  an  ode  on  Class  Day.  He  engaged  in  literary 
work  on  the  LVwil  CiiriMifin  newspaper,  of  New  York  City,  until  1876.  He  was  ordained 
and  installed  as  minister  of  the  First  Unitarian  Society  of  Waterville,  this  State,  June 
6,  1878.  He  married  Isabel  Francis,  of  Tarrytown,  N.  Y.,  Nov.  6,  1878. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

She  sits  in  the  low,  old-fashioned  room, 
Two  white  hands  are  crossed  on  her  knee, 

The  clock  is  ticking  on  in  the  gloom, 
Marking  the  moments  steadily. 


71 8  7 B E  P OE TK  OF  MA  1NE . 


While  the  red  glow  of  the  failing  lire 

Flashes  full  in  her  pure,  young  face; 
I  wonder  if  she  is  unaware 

Of  lips'  expression,  and  eyes'  sweet  grace! 
Or  does  she  guess,  has  some  one  told, — 

Surely  she  loves,  I  know  not  whom, — 
That  her  hair  is  like  to  line-spun  gold, 

Her  cheek  to  the  pink  of  the  apple-bloom  ? 
What  sweet  fancies  have  thronged  her  mind, 

Thoughts  of  happier  days  long  past? 
Hears  she  the  roar  of  the  dreary  wind, 

The  branches  creaking  at  every  blast? 
Knows  she  aught  of  the  falling  rain, 

Of  the  pitiless,  merciless,  driving  sleet  ? 
Look!  she  has  pressed  her  face  to  the  pane, 

Gazing  out  011  the  long,  dark  street. 
Now  she  has  clasped  her  fair,  white  hands: 

"Father  in  heaven,  I  look  unto  thee, 
Thou  who  rulest  on  wave  and  land ; 

'Tis  a  terrible  night  for  my  lover  at  sea!'' 

Many  a  year  has  gone  to  its  grave, 

Years  with  sorrow  and  loss  in  their  track, 
Since  her  fond  prayer  went  over  the  wave 

For  one  who  might  never  again  come  back. 
Still  she  sits  in  the  darkening  room, 

Her  poor,  thin  hands  at  rest  on  her  knee, 
The  old  clock  ticking  still  in  the  gloom, 

Marking  the  moments  steadily. 
Ah!  but  the  face  is  so  old  and  wan, 

And  the  wondrous  hair  that  her  lover  called  gold. 
Years  ago  in  the  days  long  gone, 

Has  silver  threads;  she  is  growing  old. 
Still  when  she  hears  the  wintry  blast 

Singing  its  dirge  in  each  leafless  tree, 
Says  she  softly,  while  tears  drop  fast. 

'"Tis  a  terrible  night  for  those  at  sea!" 


(Klisabeth 


Mrs.  Elisabeth  Cavazza  is  the  -wife  of  the  late  !Nino  Cavazza,  of  Modeua,  Italy.  She 
is  a  native  of  Portland,  and  has  -written  in  verse  and  prose  for  the  Portland  Transcript 
and  Portland  Press,  and  for  various  magazines  and  newspapers. 


ELISABETH  CA  VAZZA.  719 


AN  ISLAND  PTXE. 

SESTINA. 

Upon  the  promontory  stands  a  Pine, 
Where  the  last  land  is  steep  against  the  sea, 
And  waters  break  below,  upon  the  shore: 
The  years  pass  by  as  clouds  above  his  head; 
And  tempered  by  the  sun  and  rain  and  wind, 
His  lonely  strength  is  lifted  to  the  sky. 

And  not  for  any  changes  of  the  sky, 
Or  heat  or  cold,  is  changed  the  constant  Pine, 
But  sets  his  leafage  hard  against  the  wind; 
And  fed  with  salt,  sharp  moisture  of  the  sea, 
Before  the  hatred  of  the  storm  makes  head, 
And  stands  a  sentinel  upon  the  shore. 

And  when  the  sun-seared  grass  half  clothes  the  shore, 

And  floating  mists  melt  in  the  sapphire  sky, 

And  birds  of  the  new  summer,  overhead, 

Fly  to  and  fro  about  the  ancient  Pine, 

And  the  sun's  light  is  broken  on  the  sea 

As  the  thin  waves  are  crisped  before  the  wind, 

The  Pine,  not  moved  by  fierce  or  flattering  wind, 

All  day,  all  night,  upon  the  lonely  shore, 

As  from  a  citadel,  looks  out  to  sea; 

Where  slender,  pointed  masts  upon  the  sky, 

Stature  and  shape  of  many  a  kindred  pine, 

Come  up  the  bay  with  banners  at  their  liea.l. 

And  while  the  crown  of  leafage  on  his  head 
Is  held  on  high  to  meet  the  ocean  wind, 
The  mariner  will  hail  the  mighty  Pine 
Set  as  a  beacon  on  the  extreme  shore, 
And  unafraid  of  darkening  of  the  sky, 
Or  sullen  murmur  of  the  mutinous  sea. 

Year  after  year  the  Pine  beside  the  sea 

Has  watched  the  ships  sail  past  the  granite  head 

And  vanish  in  the  distance  of  the  sky, 

And  send  no  message  backward  by  the  wind, 

To  him  who  guards  the  lonely  island  shore. 

Forever  at  his  post,  the  faithful  Pine. 

Some  day  the  Pine  shall  fall  into  the  sea, 

And  on  the  shore  the  trees  bewail  their  head, 

While  a  great  wind  makes  havoc  in  the  sky. 


720  THE  P OETS  O  F  MA  INE 


SLUMBER  SONG. 

"Sonno,  sonno,  vieni  da  lontano — 
Vieni  a  cavallo  e  11011  venir  a  piedi, 
Vieni  a  cavallo,  a  un  cavallo  d'oro!" 

(Italian  popular  song.) 

Come,  sweet  Sleep,  from  afar— 

Not  with  footsteps  that  delay, 
For  thy  wool  soft  sandals  are 

Over-slow  upon  their  way. 
On  thy  floating  dusky  hair 

Wreath  of  poppies  thou  dost  set, 

That  we  mortals  may  forget 
Waking  hours  and  all  their  care. 
From  afar,  come,  sweet  Sleep ! 

Come,  sweet  Sleep,  on  a  steed, 

That  weareth  golden  wings, 
That  on  asphodel  doth  feed 

And  doth  drink  at  heavenly  springs. 
Hide  not  through  the  ivory  gate, 

Come  to  us  through  gates  of  horn, 

Bring  good  dreams  made  true  at  morn, 
Even  though  the  morn  be  late. 
On  thy  steed,  come,  sweet  Sleep! 

Gentle  Sleep,  weave  a  wreath 

Of  thy  drowsiest  poppy-llowers. 
Bind  it  over  and  beneath 

The  incessant  fleeting  hours. 
Set  thy  lips  against  their  face, 

Whisper  to  them,  light  and  low, 

Plead  for  us  before  they  go 
That  they  stay  a  little  space : 
Weave  a  wreath,  gentle  Sleep! 

Haste  thee,  Sleep,  do  not  wait, 

For  the  night  is  near  its  noon: 
Thou  wilt  find  us  overlate 

So  thou  dost  not  seek  us  soon. 
For  the  cock  begins  to  crow 

At  the  earliest  beam  of  light; 

Then  with  every  other  sprite, 
Thou,,  a  gentle  ghost,  must  go. 
Do  not  wait,  haste  thee,  Sleep ! 


ELISABETH  CAVAZZA  721 


Take  us,  Sleep,  on  thy  horse- 
As  a  mother,  journeying, 

Holds  her  babe  and  on  her  course 
Lullaby  doth  softly  sing. 

Let  thine  hair  fall  round  thy  face 
Veiling  visions  in  thine  eyes, 
Carry  us  to  Paradise 

At  thy  steed's  most  quiet  pace. 

On  thy  horse,  take  us,  Sleep ! 


BALLATA  ITALIAN  A. 

OF    ALICIA'S    BOXNET. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

I'sat  beside  Alicia  at  the  play; 

Her  violet  eyes  with  tender  tears  were  wet 
(The  diamonds  in  her  ears  less  bright  than  they) 

For  pity  of  the  woes  of  Juliet; 

Alicia's  sighs  a  poet  might  have  set 
To  delicate  music  in  a  dainty  sonnet. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

And  yet  to  me  her  graceful  readj  words 

Sounded  like  tinkling  silver  bells  that  jangled, 

For  on  her  golden  hair  the  humming-birds 
Were  fixed  as  if  within  a  sunbeam  tangled, 
Their  quick  life  quenched,  their  tiny  bodies  mangled, 

Poor  pretty  birds  upon  Alicia's  bonnet. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming  birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

Caught  in  a  net  of  delicate  creamy  crepe, 
The  dainty  captives  lay  there  dead  together ; 

N"o  dart  of  slender  bill,  no  fragile  shape 
Fluttering,  no  stir  of  any  radiant  feather; 
Alicia  looked  so  calm,  I  wondered  whether 

She  cared  if  birds  were  killed  to  trim  her  bonnet. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 


7:>2  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


If  rubies  and  if  sapphires  have  a  spirit, 
Though  deep  they  lie  below  the  weight  of  earth, 

If  emeralds  can  a  conscious  life  inherit, 
And  beryls  rise  again  to  winged  birth — 
Being  changed  to  birds  but  not  to  lesser  worth — 

Alicia's  golden  head  had  such  upon  it. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

Perhaps  I  dreamod — the  house  was  very  still — 
But  on  a  sudden  the  Academy 

Of  Music  seemed  a  forest  of  Brazil; 
Each  pillar  that  supports  the  balcony 
Took  form  and  stature  of  a  tropic  tree, 

With  scarlet  odorous  flowers  blooming  oil  it. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

A  fragrance  of  delicious  drowsy  death 
Was  in  the  air;  the  lithe  lianas  clung 

About  the  mighty  tree,  and  birds  beneath 

More  swift  than  arrows  flashed  and  flew  among 
The  blossoms  of  the  perfumed  poisonous  breath, 

The  heavy  honeyed  flowers  that  hung  upon  it. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

Like  rain  drops  when  the  sun  breaks  up  the  shower, 
Or  weavers'  shuttles  carrying  golden  thread, 

Or  flying  petals  of  a  wind-blown  flower, 
Myriads  of  humming-birds  flew  overhea'd — 
Purple  and  gold  and  green  and  blue  and  red — 

Above  each  scarlet  cup,  or  poised  upon  it. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

What  rapid  flight!     Each  one  a  winged  flame, 
Burning  with  brilliant  joy  of  life  and  all 

Delight  of  motion ;  to  and  fro  they  came, 
An  endless  dance,  a  fairy  festival; 
Then  suddenly  I  saw  them  pause  and  fall, 

Slain  only  to  adorn  Alicia's  bonnet. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 


8  US  IE  R.  GRAB  A  M  CL  A  RK.  723 


My  mind  came  back  from  the  Brazilian  land; 
For,  as  a  snow-Hake  falls  to  earth  beneath, 

Alicia's  hand  fell  lightly  on  my  hand; 
And  yet  I  fancied  that  a  stain  of  death, 
Like  that  which  doomed  the  Lady  of  Macbeth, 

Was  on  her  hand :  could  I  perhaps  have  won  it  ? 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 


Mrs.  Susie  R.  G.  Clark,  the  daughter  of  Adam  and  Charlotte  Graham,  was  born  at 
Halifax,  Nova  Scotia;  July  2,  TS48,  and  came  to  Portland.  Me.,  with  her  widowed  mother, 
when  only  eight  years  old  She  says:  '-I  was  too  poor  to  purchase  the  education  I 
needed,  and  too  frail  to  earn  it, — hut  this  grand  old  Sttte  took  me  to  her  broad  bosom, 
gave  me  freely  of  her  advantages,  and  treated  me  so  like  her  own  I  had  well-nigh  forgot 
ten  I  was  not  such."  She  was  among  the  first  scholars  who  occupied  the  present  High 
School  on  Cumberland  street,  was  converted  when  eleven  years  of  age,  and  is  a  member 
of  the  First  Baptist  Church,  Portland.  She  was  married  young,  lias  had  eight  children, 
three  of  whom  h;\ve  reached  the  better  land,  and  the  rest  are  spared  to  earth  and 
mother.  Seventeen  years  of  Mrs  Clark's  early  married  life  were  spent  in  other  parts. of 
New  England,  but  four  years  since  she  returned  to  the  city  of  her  adoption.  She 
regards  the  privilege  of  writ  ng  in  itself  ils  own  exceeding  great  reward,  even  if  the 
work  is  necessarily  cramped  by  household  cares,  while  little  ones  pra'tle  at  her  feet  or 
nestle  in  her  arms.  Much  of '.Mrs.  Clark's  poetry,  as  well  as  prose  matter,  has  been 
written  for  The  Vermont  IVttfr/nti-iit.  <i.it't  < '/>  ron.ide,  The,  r,»xtnn  Watchman,  KH&  the. 
Nerv  York  Examiner,  though  occasionally  she  has  written  for  various  other  papers. 
Her  books,  from  the  firm  of  I>.  Lothrop  &  Co.,  Boston,  '  Zensie  Walton,"  "  Zensie's 
"Womanhood,"  "Our  Street,"  "Triple  E"  and  "Achor"  are  well  known  to  most  young 
people,  and  are  found  in  the  Sabbath  School  and  circulating  libraries.  To  the  "series 
named,  a  new  book  will  soon  be  added,  entitled  "  Herbert  Gardenell's  Children."  The 
story  of  "  Our  Street"  is  her  favorite,  and  is  located  in  Portland  and  its  immediate  vicin- 
ity. 

THANKSGIVING. 

For  the  flowers  that  bloomed,  and  the  flowers  now  dead. 
For  the  beauty  and  fragrance  their  memory  shed, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  nest  now  quite  empty,  that  gently  doth  sway, 
Where  it  throbbed  with  the  life  that  is  elsewhere  to-day, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  rain  and  the  snow,  for  the  sun  and  the  cloud, 
For  the  smile  on  pale  lips  seen  when  under  the  shroud, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  harvest  of  earth,  and  the  harvest  of  heaven, 
The  love  thou  hast  taken,  the  love  tkou  hast  given, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  home  that  is  building  above  and  below, 
For  the  love  that  is  gilding  the  edge  of  our  woe, 
We  give  thanks. 


724  THE  POETS  OF  MA1M&. 

For  the  graves  of  our  darlings,  the  tears  of  to-day, 
For  the  glad  resurrection  we  hail  on  its  way, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  power  to  work,  and  the  will  to  be  Thine, 
For  the  weakness  that  strengthens,  the  girding  divine, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  friends  at  our  side,  and  the  friends  that  await, 
Who  are  watching  for  us  at  the  Beautiful  Gate, 
We  give  thanks. 

For  the  path  that,  though  rough,  by  the  Saviour  was  trod, 
For  the  mansions  so  sure  in  the  City  of  God, 
We  give  thanks. 


SAY  "MOTHER." 

Call  me,  my  son,  say  "Mother"  once  again, 
My  old  eyes  miss  thee,  dimmed  with  years  of  pain, 
But  thy  dear  voice  can  call  me  "  mother." 

Speak  slowly,  I  would  hear, 

And  duller  grows  my  ear, 
But,  O  it  covets  that  sweet  word  of  old, 
That  falls  like  sunshine,  be  it  e'er  so  cold, 

Say  "Mother,  mother." 

I've  heard  rare  culture  silvery  words  repeat, 
And  rapturous  music  making  pulses  leap, 
Yet  naught  could  move  my  soul  like  "  mother." 

That  holds  all  charms  for  me, 

Such  wealth  of  melody. 
Come  near,  and  let  it  greet  me  yet  again, 
The  dear,  familiar,  hallowed  child-refrain; 

Say  "Mother,  mother." 

I  missed  it  many  years  when  thy  feet  strayed, 
Its  loss  upon  me  like  a  nightmare  weighed; 
When  other  women's  boys  said  "Mother," 

I  started  at  the  word, 

My  every  heart-beat  stirred ; 
And  when  you  came  again,  the  kiss  you  gave 
Nor  sweeter  was  than  the  word,  glad  yet  grave, 

"Dear  mother,  mother." 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  the  Heart  above 

On  the  white  throne,  whose  truest  name  is  Love, 


H  OR  A  CE  MEL  VYN  JL'8  TA  BROOKE.  725 

Vibrates  as  keenly  to  "  Our  Father." 

I  can  then  understand 

Why  long,  with  patient  hand, 
He  holds  his  straying  ones  in  tender  care, — 
I  can  imagine  his  down-bending  ear 

For,  "Father,  Father." 

"Father,"  my  heart  can  say  it  fond  and  full, 

It  stands  with  "  Jesus,"  first,  most  beautiful, 

But  after  these,  to  me,  comes  "mother." 

Sweet  in  the  little  one, 

But  sweeter  far.  my  son, 

When  lips  like  thine,  proud,  manly,  true,  and  brave, 
Stoop,  from  the  heart  to  whisper  what  I  crave, 

"  My  mother,  mother." 

"No  marriage  up  in  heaven,"  so  we  read, 
Then  "husband,"  "wife,"  perhaps  we  shall  not  need, 
But  always,  surely,  will  be  "mother," 

Or  else  no  home  is  there, 

The  mansions  howe'er  fair, 
And  woman's  ears  will  ache  the  same,  I  ween, 
In  streets  of  gold  as  in  these  meadows  green, 

For  "mother,  mother." 

Come  close,  my  son,  I  shall  be  homesick  there 
Unless  some  crowned  saint,  strong,  tall,  and  fair, 
Shall  say  to  me,  as  here,  "My  mother;" 

I'll  long  for  thee,  and  wait 

Close  to  the  pearly  gate. 
Perhaps  the  Lord  will  let  me  porter  be, 
And  when  you  knock,  I'll  ope,  then  say  to  me, 

"  My  mother,  mother." 


Horace  Melvyn  Estabrooke.  born  in  Linneus.  Aroostook  County,  Jan.  20  1849  Fitted 
for  college  at  Houlton  Academy,  and  graduated  at  Maine  State  College  in  the  class  of 
76.  While  at  college  began  writing  songs,  generally  both  words  and  music  though  the 
words  were  frequently  published  under  a  nom  tie  plume.  Some  of  these  songs  have  had 
a  wide  popularity,  one  entitled  "For  You  We  are  Praying  at  Home,"  was  sung  all 
through  England  and  Wales  at  popular  concerts.  One,  "  Sweet  Long  Ago  "  though  pub 
lished  m  1876,  still  retains  its  hold  upon  the  public,  and  sells  to  the  extent  of  several 
thousand  each  year.  After  graduating,  adopted  teaching  as  a  profession,  and  is  at  pres 
ent  connected  with  the  Gorham  Normal  School.  In  addition  to  some  original  poetry 
he  has  translated  a  few  poems  and  several  novelettes  from  the  French  and  German  De 
livered  the  poem  at  the  reunion  of  the  alumni  of  Maine  State  College  in  1887 


726  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

THE  VALKYRIA. 

(Odin's  Maidens.) 

Upon  the  brown  and  barren  field, 
Asleep  the  mail-clad  warriors  lie, 

The  hand  still  grasping  sword  and  shield, 
Though  slumber  seals  each  weary  eye, 

While  over  all,  the  ruddy  Mars 

Burns  like  a  bale-fire  'mid  the  stars. 

What  dream  they  as  the  moments  speed  ? 

Of  home,  or  friends,  or  fatherland  ? 
Or  do  they  quaff  the  foaming  mead 

From  golden  cups  in  Hilda's  hand  ? 
Or  of  the  joy  of  coming  strife, 
When  morn  shall  wake  the  world  to  life  ? 

Was  it  the  wind  that  hurried  past 

And  brushed  the  sleeping  warrior's  hair  ? 

The  leaves  stir  not  as  in  the  blast, 
All  silent  is  the  autumn  air, 

Save  where  some  bird,  with  plaintive  moan, 

Sings  of  a  sorrow  all  its  own. 

Behold  on  pinions  snowy  white, 
The  Valkyrs  float  above  the  plain, — 

Their  dim  robes  trailing  through  the  night 
Sound  like  the  wind  in  ripened  grain; 

They  hover  o'er  the  silent  field, 

And  mark  each  warrior  on  his  shield. 

And  if  their  hands  but  touch  his  head, 
Or  yet  upon  his  heart  be  pressed, 

To-morrow  night  among  the  dead 
His  form  will  lie  in  dreamless  rest; 

For  Odin  chooseth  whom  he  will 

Valhalla's  stately  halls  to  fill. 

And  swift  across  the  iris  arch, 
That  joins  the  spirit  world  with  this, 

The  throngs  of  valiant  dead  shall  march 
To  Odin's  home,  the  land  of  bliss, 

Where  Glasor's  golden  forests  grow, 

And  Thund's  bright  waters  e>er  flow. 

There,  when  the  ruddy  morn  appears, 
The  warrior  dons  his  burnished  steel 

Beneath  Valhalla's  roof  of  spears, 
And  knows  the  joy  which  none  can  feel 


HER  HER  T  MIL  TON  8  YL  VES  TEE  Til 


But  him  who  joins  in  deadly  strife, 
To  win  the  gage  or  lose  his  life. 

And  when  the  stars  with  pitying  eyes 
Look  down  upon  the  heaps  of  slain, 

At  trumpet  blast  the  dead  arise, 
Each  bleeding  wound  is  healed  again, 

And,  hurrying  at  the  welcome  call, 

The  heroes  throng  to  Odin's  hall. 

There  Valkyrs  stand  with  golden  bowls, 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  fragrant  mead, 

While  through  the  lofty  arches  rolls 
The  wassail  song  of  valiant  deed; 

They  laugh  and  quaff  till  night  is  o'er, 

And  feast  upon  the  sacred  boar. 

Then  count  ye  not  as  foes  to  man 

The  maids  that  haunt  the  battle  plain, 

Whose  snowy  pinions  gently  fan 

The  brows  of  those  who  shall  be  slain; 

To  die  is  better  than  to  live, 

Since  death  brings  joy  life  cannot  give. 


Herbert  M.  Sylvester  wa-s  born  in  Lowell,  Ma<s.,  Feb.  20,  1810.  a*  which  time  his  father 
was  prominently  connected  with  one  of  the  leading  cotton  mills  in  that  city.  Owing  to 
ill  health  the  lather  left  Lowell  for  the  State  ol  Maine,  taking  with  him  his  wife  and 
son.  then  ten  yean  of  age  Young  Sylvester  was  strictly  and  religiously  trained.  Like 
numbers  of  other  country  boys,  he  had  a  bare  ten  weeks  of  schooling  "in  summer,  and 
hardh  more  than  that  in  winter  until  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  was  sent  to  Brid'gton 
Academy,  where  he  fitted  for  college.  After  thirteen  years  of  successful  legal  practice 
in  Portland.  Mr  Sylvester  went  to  Boston,  was  admitted  to  the  Suffolk  Bar,  and  opened 
his  office.  Jt  was  here  that  his  "  Prose  Pastorals"  were  written,  that  have  been  called 
'  Poems  in  Prose."  There  is  a  music  and  charm  in  it  that  rival  even  Burroughs  when 
at  his  best.  Mr.  Sylvester  has  written  several  poems  of  great  finish  and  beauty  though 
he  is  best  known  as  a  prose  writer. 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT. 

Silent  I  sit  beside  my  glowing  hearth; 

Without,  the  bare  limbs  sway  against  the  sky; 
Weird,  creaking  sounds  come  up  along  the  path, 

Like  elfin  laughter-song,  now  low,  now  high; 
And  as  the  dull  red  light  begins  to  wane 

Above  the  dark  line  of  the  wood,— 

The  sober,  half-regretful  mood 
Of  a  November  day, — 


728  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


The  air  is  thick  with  white-winded  messengers 
That  softly  tap  against  my  window-pane 
Their  winter  reveille. 

The  blazing  fire-log  snaps  and  roars  in  gl'.M*; 

The  sparks  glearn  brightly  as  the  shado  .vs  tall, 
And  in  the  ruddy,  fitful  glow  I  see 

Dark  shapes  go  dancing  up  and  down  the  wall. 
Across  the  murky  flue  above  the  crane 

Red-coated  troops  speed  to  the  fray, 

And,  wavering,  halt  and  fade  away 

To  come  again, —    . 

As  hopes,  once  brilliant,  rush  on  to  their  goal, 
To  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  for  the  pain 
They  bore  in  vain. 

The  storm-winds  moan  their  misery  and  loss 

With  gusty,  gasping  speech,  then  die  away ; 
Above  the  sleepy  eaves  the  great  elms  toss 

Their  naked,  brawny  arms  in  sheer  dismay; 
While  through  the  crannies  of  the  casement  near, 

With  stealthy,  noiseless  presence  creep 

The  phantoms  of  the  snow  to  keep 

Me  ghostly  company; 

But  like  unbidden  guests  they  turn  and  stop, 
Uncertain,  hesitating  still,  and  peer 
At  my  discourtesy. 

The  storm  was  lulled;  the  broad  hearth's  ruddy  blaze 
Has  waned ;  across  the  hallway  by  the  stair 

A  quaint  old  timepiece  of  Colonial  days 

With  loud  yet  laggard  tick  doles  out  the  spare 

And  fleeting  moments  of  the  weary  year, 
And  keeps  the  grotesque  brazen  dogs  — 
Within  whose  warm  embrace  Yule-logs 
In  far-off  days  have  burned — 

An  ancient  fellowship,  whose  memories 

Have  grown  with  time  and  silence  doubly  dear 
That  centuries  have  earned. 

My  fire  burns  low;  the  live  coals  flush  and  pale; 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  the  dull  snapping  seems 
A  low,  sweet  crooning-song,  an  olden  tale 

To  bring  swift  thoughts  of  boyhood's  happy  dreams. 
The  years  fly  backward, — backward  O  so  far 

It  seems  but  yesterday  when  Spring 

Brought  all  her  fragrant  blossoming 
And  promise  rare, 


UERBER  T  MIL  TON  S TL  VES  TEE.  729 


On  winds  that  tinged  her  cheeks  with  clover-tints, 
With  only  fitful  April  tears  to  mar 
A  face  so  sweet  and  fair. 

Within  the  shadows  of  the  orchard-trees 

That  Hanked  the  low-gaped  wall  beyond  the  lane 
I  hear  the  plover  whistling  down  the  breeze, 

The  robins  singing  in  the  summer  rain ; 
The  throstle  in  the  lowlands  pipes  his  notes 

Where  brooks  with  azure  quivers  hold 

The  sun's  slant  javelins  of  gold, 
Half-hid  in  meadow  bloom, 

That,  tossed  by  summer  winds,  seems  a  bright  sea 
Of  emerald  necked  with  flowery  boats 
Deep-laden  with  perfume. 

In  through  the  windows  of  the  gable  old, 

Looking  the  misty  road  the  river  takes, 
The  rounding  moon  pours  floods  of  pale-hued  gold, 

And  with  quiet,  dreamy  splendor  breaks 
The  raftered  gloom;  or  on  the  roof's  broad  slope 

With  drowsy  cadence  once  again 

The  low  sweet  music  of  the  rain 

Lulls  me  to  childish  rest; 
And  in  the  morning  sun  I  trudge  to  school, 
Nor  dream  there  is  a  world  of  fairer  hope 
Beyond  the  breezy  west. 

In  alder-shadowed  nooks  with  patient  hand 
I  tempt  the  wary  trout,  or  slowly  take 

The  hillocked  pastures,  where  the  cattle  stand 
Knee-deep  in  quiet  painted  pools,  that  make 

The  sky's  bright  picture,  for  my  homeward  way. 
Old  faces  greet  me  at  the  door, 
And  footsteps  sound  along  the  floor 
So  silent  now  and  lone, — 

The  smouldering  brands  fall  outward  at  my  feet; 

My  youth  was  but  a  dream  to  fade  away,— 
A  dream  once  all  my  own ! 

With  face  against  the  frosty  pane,  I  see 

Above  the  city's  stately  dome  of  white 
God's  footsteps  in  the  starry  mystery,— 

The  far-off  lustrous  prophecy  of  night,— 
What  joy  or  sorrow  do  they  hold  apart  ? 

My  loss  may  prove  my  neighbor's  gain; 

His  wealth  bring  me  its  hoard  of  pain 
Without  the  thought; 

48 


730  7  HE  POET  a  OF  MAINE. 


And  yet,  I  have  the  lasting  recompense 
Of  happy  bygone  days  within  my  heart 
With  blessed  memories  fraught. 


j^nmttt  jjf.  <gros$nwn. 

Born  in  Augusta,  Me.,  Feb.  26,  1849;  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  "the  city 
and  began  to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Universal  Salvation  in  1875.  In  October, '1877  she 
entered  the  Theological  Department  of  St.  Lawrence  University,  Canton,  N.  Y.  and  was 
graduated  therefrom  in  June,  1880.  In  July  of  the  same  year  she  assumed 'pastoral 
charge  of  the  Universalist  Society,  Brovrafleld,  Oxford  County,  Me.,  and  maintained  that 
relationship,  with  several  intervals  of  rest,  until  tinal  resignation  in  May  1886  May  3 
1887,  she  was  married  to  Dr.  A.  T.  Grossman,  of  East  Madison.  Me  ,  and  in  September  of 
the  same  year  removed  to  New  York  City,  where  she  is  still  residing.  Mrs.  Grossman  has 
written  occasionally  for  the  press,  both  under  her  own  name  and  the  nom  de  wlume 
ri  Maud  Manning." 


OUR  DEAD  SINGERS. 

They  are  gathering  home,  the  good  and  wise. 

Who  have  labored,  and  loved,  and  sung, — 
They  are  quitting  the  harvest  fields  of  eartli : 

For  the  vesper  bells  have  rung. 

They  are  gathering  home  in  the  purple  shades, 

'Neath  the  orange  and  crimson  dyes; 
They  are  entering  in  at  the  emerald  gates 
-  That  ope  in  the  sunset  skies  :— 

There's  Bryant— our  patriarch  of  song! — 

Whose  crown  is  a  nation's  love, 
Whose  face  of  majestic  saintliness 

Need  suffer  no  change  above. 

One  marked  with  travel's  bronze  finger, 
Whose  garments  breathe  spices  and  balms, 

Whose  wine  holds  the  flavor  of  lotus, 
Whose  song  is  the  music  of  palms. 

Bayard,  the  pilgrim  singer! — 

Ah!  blithely  the  star- wheels  were  driven 
That  caught  up  his  stalwart  spirit 

To  the  treasure-lands  of  heaven. 

.  And  he,  whose  lips  were  a  lyre, 

Who  never  could  speak  but  he  sun^: 
Whose  poems  were  writ,  as  babes  cry. 
In  the  one  universal  tongue. 


ELLA   HINES  STltATTON. 


Longfellow!  the  star  of  music  — 
The  fountain  of  freshest  lays  — 

Whose  carols  will  gleam  and  ripple 
As  long  as  the  sun  has  rays. 

And  that  one  whose  ruby  measures 
Quicken  heart  and  brain  like  wine, 

And  whose  voice  rings  all  the  changes 
Of  flute,  organ,  brazen  chime; 

Flexible  with  woman's  sweetness, 
Strong  as  manhood's  manliest  tone, 

In  our  Reed,  flowers  bloom,  birds  warble, 
Mountains  tower,  oceans  moan. 

Men  are  sad  who  miss  your  voices 
Midst  their  minor-chords  of  pain, 

Angels  happy  who  have  won  you 
To  make  liquider  their  strain. 

For  to-night  some  blessed  seraph 

Sails  through  space  on  flashing  wing, 

Woven  of  golden  numbers 

That  our  own  dead  singers  sing. 


JfilfftS    J//VI//0H. 


Mrs.  Ella  Hines  Stratton  was  born  in  Lyndon  (now  Caribou)  March  26,  1849,  and  mar 
ried  A.  W.  Stratton,  at  Presque  Isle,  Aug.  29,  18G7.  She  is  favorably  known  as  a  ready 
writer,  and  although  her  pen  turns  readily  to  prose  yet  it  is  sometimes  driven  into  rhyme 
—as  in  the  following. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

What  means  all  this  racket  and  rush  and  rout  ? 

O  dear!  my  head  will  split  with  each  shout; 

'"Tis  the  Fourth  of  July!"  with  much  pomp  and  noise, 

Shouts  the  oldest  of  my  four  jubilant  boys. 

From  his  drum  the  youngest  looks  up  at  me, 
"We're  cel'brating,  mamma,  don't  you  see?" 
As  if  I  could  fail  to  hear  all  the  noise 
Made  by  the  hands  of  my  four  little  boys. 

Wide  awake  boys  will  make  wide-awake  men; 
'Tis  this  thought  that  cheers  me,  and  then,  and  then, 
With  all  of  their  rush  and  racket  and  noise 
The  wealth  of  the  world  could  not  buy  my  boys. 

Let  them  have,  while  they  can,  their  boisterous  fun, 
As  they  garner  their  strength  for  the  race  to  be  run, 


732  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Let  me  bear,  while  I  may,  the  rush  and  the  noise 
Made  by  my  four  little  merry  boys. 


MEASUREMENT. 

Great  tasks  are  but  seldom  given  out, 

Great  deeds  are  but  for  the  few, 
Yet  the  little  acts,  not  talked  about, 

May  need  a  faith  as  true. 

Some  things  are  better  for  being  small, 
For  a  breath  who  wants  a  cyclone  ? 

And  the  flower  which  would  die  in  a  water-fall 
Grows  bright  with  a  drop  alone. 

The  small  is  not  always  a  little  thing — 

The  stroke  of  a  pen  may  move 
A  crown  from  off  the  brow  of  a  king, 

A  government  from  its  groove. 

At  times  our  measurement  cannot  be  right, 
For,  when  tried  by  the  Master's  test, 

So  little  a  gift  as  a  widow's  mite 
Out-balances  all  the  rest. 

And  whether  a  thing  be  great  or  small 

As  none  of  us  may  plan, 
It  is  safe  to  do,  what  we  do  at  all, 

The  very  best  that  we  can. 


Mrs.  Maud  Moore,  the  daughter  of  Samuel  Emerson  Smith,  who  graduated  from  Bow- 
doin,  the  youngest  member  <»f  his  class,  was  born  in  Warren.  Me.,  -Inly  'J2,  1849,  and, 
when  an  infant,  removed  with  her  parents  to  Thoma  ton,  where  she  has  ever  since 
resided.  Until  twenty-three  years  of  :ige  she  was  known  as  Ella  Maud  Smith,  and  under 
this  name  wrote  her  well  known  and  beautiful  poem  "  Rock  of  Ages.'"  which  was  sent 
by  a  friend  to.  and  first  published  in,  the  u«ine  standard  for  Ot  (I,  1871,  subsequently 
appearing  as  the  opening  piece  in  her  volume,—  "  Songs  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow,''  1884. 
She  was  married  to  J.  E.  Moore.  Esq.,  o£  Thomaston.  .June  11,  1*72.  She  was  an  apt. 
eager  scholar,  as  a  school  girl,  but  poor  health  denied  her  enlarged  opportunities,  and 
she  could  only  pursue  her  studies  in  the  village  public  schools.  Mrs.  Moore,  from  early 
childhood,  particularly  excell  ;d  at  composition,  an  I  though,  she  has  written  poetry 
miinly,  a  story  from  lier  pen,  the  first  she  ever  wrote  for  publication,  took  the  first  prize 
of  $500.  as  a  story  for  girls,  offered  by  the  publishers  of  the  Yo  it/i's  <'<>m,/>ani<»i..  It 
was  entitled  "Little  Miss  Bashby."  'The  Le"'>*to»,  Jonrnaf,  the  C'hri&ian  at,  Work, 
New  York  Phe  American  Rural  Home.  Rochester,  N.  Y..  and  other  leading  journals, 
have  given  this  lady's  literary  work  high  praise  Mrs.  Moore  has  one  child,  Christine 
Emerson  Moore,  born  Aug.  7,  1886.  The  family  have  a  romantically  located  home,  over 
looking  the  bay  in  the  bend  of  the  Georges  Hirer.  The  old  house  of  W  idswortli,  Long 
fellow's  ancestor,  is  but  a  short  distance  away,  where  Mrs.  Moore  and  other  children 
often  played. 

ROCK  OF  AGES. 
"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me," 
Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung; 


ELL  AIM AUD  SMITH  MOOEE.  7ii3 


Fell  the  words  unconsciously 

From  her  girlish,  gleeful  tongue. 
Sung  as  little  children  sing, 

Sung  as  sing  the  birds  in  June ; 
Fell  the  words  like  bright  leaves  down 

On  the  current  of  the  tune: 
"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

"Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee," 

Felt  her  soul  no  need  to  hide — 
Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be, 

And  she  had  no  thought  beside. 
All  the  words  unheedingly 

Fell  from  lips  untouched  by  care ; 
Dreaming  not  that  each  might  be 

On  some  other  lips  a  prayer. 
"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me," 

'Twas  a  woman  sung  them  now 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully; 

Every  word  her  heart  did  know. 
Rose  the  song  as  storm-tossed  bird 

Beats  with  weary  wing  the  air — 
Ev'ry  note  with  sorrow  stirred, 

Every  syllable  a  prayer — 
"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me," 

— Lips  grown  aged  sung  the  hymn 
Trustfully  and  tenderly — 

Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim- 
"Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee," 

Trembling  though  the  words  and  low, 
Ran  the  sweet  strain  peacefully, 

Like  a  river  in  its  flow; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life's  thorny  paths  have  pressed; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  behold  the  promised  rest: 
"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

48* 


734  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE, 


"Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me,1' 

Sung  above  a  coffin-lid; 
Underneath  all  restfully. 

All  life's  joys  and  sorrows  hid; 
Nevermore,  O  storm-tossed  soul,. 

Nevermore  from  wind  or  tide,. 
X evermore  from  billows'  roll, 

Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 
Could  the  sightless  sunken  eyes 

Closed  beneath  the  soft  gray  hair,. 
Could  the  mute  and  stiffened  lips 

Lift  again  in  pleading  prayer, 
Still,  aye  still,  the  prayer  would  be : 

"Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 


THE  BOY  OX  THE  TRAIN. 

A  little  plain  brown  face, 

That  nothing  claimed  of  grace 

Or  comeliness,  lighted  by  mournful  eyes 

That  might  have  matched  the  skies 

In  depth  of  blue;  brown'hair 

That  held  a  gleam  of  sunshine  prisoned'there. 

Through  the  long  swaying  train  of  cars  he  moved— again 

And  yet  again  scanning  each  form  and  face; 

Then  drew  from  out  its  case 

His  well-worn  violin, 

And  doffed  his  cap  to  place  his  earnings  in. 

From  him  on  either  side, 

Robings  of  silken  pride 

Were  gathered  back  by  jeweled  fingers  fair, 

As  with  that  weary  air 

That  only  heart-ache  brings, 

He  drew  his  bow  across  the  trembling  strings; 

Forth  'neath  his  hand  there  crept 

Sad,  plaintive  airs,  that  swept 

Like  half-awakened  memories  the  heart ; 

Anon  he  played  a  part 

Of  some  gay,  joyous  song — 

And  all  unheeded  by  the  busyjithrong. 

The  music  ceased  at  last, 
And  then  his  cap  he  passed, 


ED  WA  RD  PA  Y30N  PA  YSON.  735 


With  hands  that  trembled,  down  each  serried  line; 

Many  the  gems  that- shine 

Like  stars  from  fingers  fair, 

Jewels  that  gleam  from  robe  and  breast  and  hair. 

Yet  as  he  went  his  round, 

Few  were  the  pence  that  found 

The  old  torn  cap;  his  voice  amid  the  din, 

Trembling,  and  weak,  and  thin, 

Was  only  faintly  heard, 

And  few  gave  heed  to  his  imploring  word. 

Sadly  he  turned  away 

From  faces  glad  and  gay, 

Heart-sick  and  weary;  brooding  bitter  hate 

Against  earth's  rich  and  great, 

Thinking  how  but  one  gem 

Of  all  their  store  would  bring  so  much  to  him ! 

****** 

"Life  is  gone  out,"  they  said, 

Lifting  the  icy  head, 

Sweeping  the  dripping  hair  back  from  the  brow, 

Loosing  the  fingers  thin 

Clutching  the  violin ; 

"Threw  himself  off  the  bridge:— that 's  all  we  know.1 

Come,  ye  glad  hearts  and  gay! 

All  ye  who  turned  away, 

Careless  of  pleading  eyes— heedless  of  sigh ! 

Look  on  this  cold,  damp  brow ! 

Say,  feel  ye  guiltless  now  ? 

Is  there  no  wound  to  bleed,  no  blood  to  cry  ? 

Hungry; — ye  fed  him  not! 

Thirsting; — ye  gave  no  thought! 

Heart-sick; — ye  turned  aside! 

O  ye  who  go, 

Thoughtless,  o'er  all  life's  track! 

Pray  God,  that,  looking  back, 

Cause  for  such  cursings  ye  never  may  know ! 


wson 

Edward  P.  Payson  was  born  in  Westbrook,  now  Deering,  July,  1849,  and  was  graduated 
at  Bowdoin  College  in  1869,  and  from  Harvard  Law  School  in  1871.  On  leaving  college 
he  taught  an  evening  school  in  Boston  in  the  winter  of  1870-71,  and  then  in  the  Portland 


726  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


High  School  two  years.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  Messrs.  Symonds  (now  Judge 
Symonds)  &  Libhy,  Portland,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  this  city, 
after  attending  the  lectures  of  the  Cambridge  Law  School.  He  has  been  on  the  school 
committee  of  Portland.  Jn  1883  Mr.  Payson  removed  to  Boston,  and  opened  an  office  in 
t/iat  city,  where  he  now  resides.  He  has  furnished  poems  read  at  the  Bowdoin  Alumni 
dinners,  and  for  other  occasions. 


MERULA. 

Peculiarly  unfortunate  seemed  the  death  of  Lucius  Merula  who  ....  had  been  Cin- 
na's  successor  in  the  consulship,  and  vho  now  .  .  .  .  in  order  to  anticipate  ....  opened 
his  veins,  and,  at  the  altar  of  the  supreme  Jupiter,  whose  priest  he  was,  after  laying 
aside  the  priestly  head-band,  breathed  his  last. — Mommsen.  Hist.  Home  lit.,  ch.  IX. 

Stands  the  fane  of  the  god  and  his  altars; 

Shrieks  the  city;  the  populace  rave; 
Come  the  fasces  of  War  and  his  lictors — 

Stark  Murder,  red  steel  and  foul  grave — 
War  kingdomed;  the  oil  of  his  prophets 

That  annoints  him  makes  king  and  enthrones, 
Is  blood  from  man's  heart,  and  the  plaudits 
Are  curses  and  groans. 

While  'tis  writ  in  the  Sibylline  verses — 

"If  the  Jovian  Flamen  be  slain, 
Rome,  sinking  'neath  Nemesis'  curses, 

Flame-smitten  shall  perish:  and  vain 
As  dust  of  the  dead  ever  drifting 

Her  deeds  be ;  her  glories  of  yore 

Dispersed,  as  the  sands  that  lie  sifting 

Round  Acheron's  shore." 

While  nigh  to  the  soothsayers'  chalice 

As  a  gladiator  waits  on  the  sands, 
Pale  waiteth  the  Flamen  Dialis 

Fillet-crowned,  holding  Life  in  his  hands. 
Fierce  echo  of  sounds  the  sword  forges 

Rings  shrill  through  the  god's  grandest  fane, 
'Midst  murmurs  from  ominous  orgies 
Unholy,  unclean. 

What  seest  thou,  Flamen  Dialis  ? 

Pale  Furies  who  dare  thee  to  stay! 
What  hearest  thou,  Flamen  Dialis  ? 

Swords,  voices  that  cry  thee  away! 
Yet  wilt  not'?    No  pain,  as  110  pleasure 

Makes  flicker  the  flame  of  thy  soul! 
No  apple  of  gold,  nor  life-treasure 
Can  shorten  thy  goal ! 


EDWARD  PA TS ON  PA Y8 ON.  737 

u  I  have  centred  my  life  in  thy  duty, 

Olympian  Jove;  have  foresworn 
Every  joy  of  the  flesh  in  life's  beauty 

At  thy  Tarpeian  altar;  have  borne 
Thee  a  strength  than  my  days  more  eternal: 

Through  all  thoughts  of  my  heart  and  my  brain 
Light  falls  from  thy  glory  supernal, 
As  rainbow  through  rain. 

4 'For  the  madness  of  hope,  the  sad  striving, 

The  triumphs  of  soul  and  of  brain, 
The  lives  that  are  dust,  and  the  living 

That  toil,  and  the  days  that  restrain, 
Are  naught  but  a  thrill  from  thy  whisper 

Which  called  unto  time,  when  thy  sun, 
Swinging  first  through  his  orbit,  and  Hesper, 
Saw  Being  begun. 

"I  call;  'tis  thy  lightning  makes  answer. 

I  pray;  'tis  thy  will  shapes  the  prayer. 
I  curse ;  on  the  world  falls  thy  censure. 

I  serve;  and  thou  rulest.     O  fair         • 
Faith's  visions!    Enthralling!    Assoiling! 

Dreams  now,  but  fruition  shall  come : 
Long  cycles  be  rounded  with  toiling; 
And  Faith's  voice  be  dumb. 

*'  Thy  lightning  hath  purged  me,  thy  glory 

Doth  rule  me,  thy  worship  make  glad 
This  life  in  thy  service  grown  hoary; 

This  life  with  thy  majesty  clad: — 
Yet— be  this  life  spilled  while  I  falter 

By  stranger,  the  curse  cometh  home 
To  thy  worship,  thy  fane  and  thine  altar, 
To  Glory,  to— Rome ! 

"A  consul,  and  Roman,  found  fleeing! 

A  Flamen  Dialis  found  slain ! 
Then  loud  laugh  proud  years  not  in  being! 

Then  fall  fiercest  fires  in  rain ! 
Nay,  better  this  life  on  this  altar 

For  all — Consul,  Flamen  and  Rome; 
Thus  perisheth  none  than  Merula. 
Thus — Nemesis,  come!" 

Clangs  the  tramp  of  the  steed,  comes  the  danger. 
Rings  the  shout  of  the  slayer  of  men, — 


738  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

'Tis  the  blood  of  the  Koman  and  stranger 

Sullies  the  vestibule :  Then 
A  hush  through  the  air:  And  110  wail  is 

Of  anguish ;  of  war  stilled  the  roar. 
"  Is '  <  the  priest  T '     "Ay!     The  Fla m en  Dialis 
Lieth  dead  on  the  floor" 

"A  stain,  red,  of  murder,  is  on  film!"1 

"Ay  ?"     "Truly  ?"     And— "Hull,  lie  been  slain  ?" 

And — "Cometh  upon  us  the  ruin, 
Quirites,  through  city  and  plain  /"' 

Nay,  fools,  for  his  pride  was  your  pity, 
With  lordship  o'er  life[in  the  rein. 

Now  peace  is  again  in  the  city, 
Through  forum  and  fane. 


d  Jfo/w  (j^ohord. 


Rev.  Edward  J.  Colcord  was  bom  in  Parsonsfield,  Me.,  July  28,  1849.  The  son  of  a  farm 
er,  his  early  life  was  passed  in  farm-work,  in  attending  public  school,  in  teaching  and 
in  reading  books  borrowed  from  kindly  neighbors.  Partially  fitted  for  college  at  Ef- 
tingham,  N.  H.,  and  with  a  preparation  completed  at  "Waterville  Classical  Institute,  he 
entered  Colby  University  in  the  autumn  of  1871.  Upon  graduation  in  1875,  with  fair  hon- 
ors  and  as  class  poet,  he  became  in  187(5  Principal  of  the  High  School,  Beverly  Mass. 
From  here,  in  1878,  he  entered  Newton  Theological  Seminary,  and  on  graduation  i'n  1881 
became  pastor  of  the  Baptist  Church  in  Amherst,  N.  pf.  Leaving  this  position  he 
accepted,  in  February,  1883,  the  work  of  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  and  History  in 
Vermont  Academy,  located  at  Saxton's  River,  Vt.  This  place  he  still  holds.  Mr.  Col- 
cord's  work  as  a  poet  has  mostly  been  done  incidentally.  Many  of  his  poems  have  been 
written  to  deliver  on  public  occasions.  He  was  requested  to  read  the  Poem  at  the  Cen 
tennial  of  Parsonsfield,  his  native  town,  in  1885.  In  1882  he  contributed  two  sonnets  to 
the  volume  of  "  New  Hampshire  Poets,  "living  then  in  that  State.  These,  with  a  Cantata 
written  in  1886,  and  set  to  music  by  L  O.  Emerson,  and  an  occasional  poem  for  the  press 
or  for  friends,  include  most  of  his  published  work. 


EAST  AND  WEST. 

In  the  faith  of  the  Greek  every  hill-slope  and  mountain 
With  bright  beings  was  peopled  of  loveliest  mien ; 

In  the  depths  of  each  grove  and  the  waves  of  each  fountain 
Their  forms  in  his  fancy  not  seldom  were  seen. 

Right  queenly  the  grace  and  right  royal  the  glory 
That  enveloped  each  nymph  of  the  woodland  or  stream  ; 

And  the  beautiful  Grecian  in  song  or  in  story 

Sang  with  rapture  the  charms  that  enchanted  his  dream  ;- 

Sang  of  many  a  haunt  of  these  glorious  lassies, 
Of  Tempe's  sweet  valley  and  Helicon's  dale, 

But  the  dearest  of  all  were  the  groves  of  Parnassus 
Where  the  mountains  came  down  to  the  Delphian  vale. 


EDWARD  JOHN  COLCORD.  739 


Here,  environed  with  cliffs  and  the  grove  of  the  Muses, 
Hose  the  famed, Delphic  temple  and  oracle  fair, 

The  resort  of  the  world  whose  oracular  verses 
Filled  the  heart  of  the  nations  with  hope  or  despair. 

And  here,  'mid  the  sweet  grove-lands  the  sun-god  Apollo, 

The  noblest,  most  fair  of  Olympia's  throng, 
Whom  the  glorious  muses  delighted  to  follow, 

Loved  to  lead  the  light  dance  or  the  heavenly  song. 

Oft  the  Delphic  priests  heard  through  the  fane's  gilded  portals 
From  the  far  mountain  lands  the  blest  songs  of  the  Nine, 

As  the  valleys  re-echoed  the  hymns  of  immortals, 
And  their  hearts  thrilled  with  joy  to  the  music  divine. 

O  most  gracious  the  gift  to  the  world  gray  and  olden, 
When  Apollo  first  roved  the  Parnassian  grove, 

Bringing  light  to  all  lives  with  his  sun-splendors  golden,  * 
And  the  nations  repaid  him  with  trust  and  with  love. 

From  across  the  yEgean  where  the  busy  Greeks  wandered, 
From  the  city  that  slept  on  the  Attican  plains, 

From  the  south-lands  which  blue- waved  Corinthian,  sundered, 
The  multitudes  brought  here  their  gold  and  their  gains. 

Round  the  shrine  of  Apollo  the  Greeks  were  one  nation : 
Here  vanished  the  hate  that  divided  their  life; 

Here  all  hearts  met  in  love  and  in  meek  adoration, 
And  forgot  at  Parnassus  the  anguish  of  strife. 

Bravely  then  poets  sang  the  Parnassian  vistas, 
And  Apollo  who  turned  the  world's  darkness  to  day; 

Or  with  rapture  adored  the  glorious  sisters, 
And  implored  them  to  hallow  each  song  or  each  lay. 

Thus  from  Delphian  grovelands  descended  the  halo 
Of  glory  which  lighted  the  gloom  of  that  time : 

Parnassus, 'the  Muses,  the  sun-god  Apollo 
Filled  the  soul  of  the  Greek  with  a  vision  sublime. 

Nor  yet  only  Greek  shores  knew  Apollo's  rich  blessing, 
But  his  footsteps  were  traced  on  Hispanian  sands : 

From  the  golden-throned  East  to  the  Occident  passing, 
His  chariot  of  flame  lighted  many  fair  lands. 

Not  alone  was  his  home  in  the  Grecian  land  splendid, 
But  right  princely  his  rest  on  the  Occident  plain, 

For  he  cherished  the  clime  where  his  bright  journey  ended, 
And  the  western  world  laughed  'neath  his  glorious  reign. 


T40  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Ah,  full  many  a  tale  did  the  poets  discover, 
And  full  many  a  legend  was  charmingly  told 

Of  the  Hesperid  isles  fair  with  summer  forever, 
Where  the  trees  of  the  gardens  dropped  apples  of  gold. 

Here  the  Heliad  nymphs  sunned  their  beauty  supernal, 
And  chanted  their  songs  through  the  ever-new  year, 

While  around  them  the  grove  smiled  with  fruitage  eternal, 
And  death  and  decay  never  haunted  them  here. 

In  this  west  world  the  Greek  saw  his  vision  immortal 
Of  Elysian  fields  where  the  glorified  range: 

Beyond  Hercules'  pillars  lay  heaven's  bright  portal, 
The  abode  of  the  blest  and  a  life  without  change. 

Here  were  glorious  lands  in  a  summer-world  lying, 
Where  no  storm-cloud  or  night  ever  shadowed  the  skies, 

And  tl^ft  weary  Greek  breathed  out  his  spirit  in  dying, 
And  dreamed  of  the  home  that  should  gladden  his  eyes. 

So  the  West  and  the  East  in  the  faith  of  the  Grecian 

Were  forever  enclosed  in  a  halo  divine: 
In  the  West  lay  his  heaven,  the  fadeless  Elysian, 

In  the  East  was  Parnassus,  the  home  of  the  Nine. 

Thus  the  Orient  shores  and  the  Occident  islands 

E'er  united  in  story  and  legend  remain, 
And  the  glory  that  shone  on  Parnassus'  fair  highlands 

Answered  back  to  the  light  of  Hesperian  plain. 


me 

This  talented  authoress,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Theodore  Herman  Jewett,  a  graduate  of 
Bowdoin,  was  born  in  South  Berwick,  Sept.  3.  1849;  was  educated  at  home  and  in  the 
Berwick  Academy,  and  has  traveled  extensively,  often  with  her  intimate  friend,  Mrs. 
Annie  Fields— wife  of  the  late  distinguished  author  and  publisher— and  herself  a  writer 
of  repute,  in  Europe,  Canada,  and  the  United  States.  In  addition  to  contributions  to 
the  leading  magazines.  Miss  -Te  \ett  is  the  author  of  several  very  popular  books,  "  Deep- 
haven."  published  in  Boston,  1877;  "Plav-Days."  1878;  "Old  Friends  and  N'esv."  1830; 
"Country  By-Wavs."  1881;  "The  Mate  of  the  Daylight,"  1883;  "A  Country  Doctor," 
1884;  "A  Marsh  Island,"  18&5;  "A  White  Heron,"  1886;  and  '-The  Story  of  the  Xor- 
inana."  (N"ew  Vorkt  1887.  Miss  Jewett's  father,  before  referred  to,  who  died  at  Craw 
ford  Notch,  in  the  White  Mountains,  Sent.  20.  1878,  was  president  of  the  Maine  Medical 
Society,  and  made  many  important  contributions  to  current  medical  literature. 

THE  EAGLE  TREES. 

TO   J.    G.    W. 

Great  pines  that  watch  the  river  go 

Down  to  the  sea  all  night,  all  day, 
Firm-rooted  near  its  ebb  and  flow, 

Bowing  their  heads  to  winds  at  play, 


SAEAH  OENE  JEWETT.  741 

; «t . 

Strong-limbed  and  proud,  they  silent  stand, 

And  watch  the  mountains  far  away, 
And  watch  the  miles  of  farming  land, 

And  hear  the  church  bells  tolling  slow. 

They  see  the  men  in  distant  fields 

Follow  the  furrows  of  the  plough ; 
They  count  the  loads  the  harvest  yields, 

And  fight  the  storms  with  every  bough, 
Beating  the  wild  winds  back  again. 

The  April  sunshine  cheers  them  now; 
They  eager  drink  the  warm  spring  rain, 

Nor  dread  the  spear  the  lightning  wields. 

High  in  the  branches  clings  the  nest 

The  great  birds  build  from  year  to  year; 
And  though  they  fly  from  east  to  west, 

Some  instinct  keeps  this  eyrie  dear 
To  their  fierce  hearts;  and  now  their  eyes 

Glare  down  at  me  with  rage  and  fear; 
They  stare  at  me  with  wild  surprise, 

Where  high  in  air  they  strong-winged  rest. 

Companionship  of  birds  and  trees ! 

The  years  have  proved  your  friendship  strong, 
You  share  each  other's  memories, 

The  river's  secret  and  its  song, 
And  legends  of  the  country-side; 

The  eagles,  take  their  journey  long, 
The  great  trees  wait  in  noble  pride 

For  messages  from  hills  and  seas. 

I  hear  a  story  that  you  tell 

In  idleness  of  summer  days: 
A  singer  that  the  world  knows  well 

To  you  again  in  boyhood  strays ; 
Within  the  stillness  of  your  shade 

He  rests  where  flickering  sunlight  plays, 
And  sees  the  nest  the  eagles  made, 

And  wonders  at  the  distant  bell. 

His  keen  eyes  watch  the  forest  growth, 

The  rabbits'  fear,  the  thrushes'  flight ; 
He  loiters  gladly,  nothing  loath 

To  be  alone  at  fall  of  night, 
The  woodland  things  around  him  taught 

Their  secrets  in  the  evening  light, 
Whispering  some  wisdom  to  his  thought 

Known  to  the  pines  and  eagles  both. 


742  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Was  it  the  birds  who  early  told 

The  dreaming  boy  that  he  would  win 
A  poet's  crown  instead  of  gold  ? 

That  he  would  fight  a  nation's  sin  ? — 
On  eagle  wings  of  song  would  gain 

A  place  that  few  might  enter  in, 
And  keep  his  life  without  a  stain 

Through  many  years,  yet  not  grow  old,? 

And  he  shall  be  what  few  men  are, 

Said  all  the  pine-trees,  whispering  low; 
His  thought  shall  find  an  unseen  star; 

He  shall  our  treasured  legends  know : 
His  words  will  give  the  way-worn  rest 

Like  this  cool  shade  our  branches  throw; 
He,  lifted  like  our  loftiest  crest, 

Shall  watch  his  country  near  and  far. 

A  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 
More  than  a  hundred  years  ago 

They  raised  for  her  this  little  stone ; 
"  Miss  Polly  Townsend,  aged  nine," 

Under  the  grass  lies  here  alone. 

'Twas  hard  to  leave  your  merry  notes 
For  ranks  of  angels,  robed  and  crowned, 

To  sleep  until  the  Judgment  Day 
In  Copp's  Hill  burying-ground. 

You  must  have  dreaded  heaven  then,— 

A  solemn  doom  of  endless  rest, 
Where  white-winged  seraphs  tuned  their  harps — 

You  surely  liked  this  life  the  best ! 

The  gray  slate  head-stones  frightened  you, 

When  from  Christ  Church  your  father  brought 

You  here  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
And  told  you  that  this  world  was  nought; 

And  you  spelled  out  the  carven  names 

Of  people,  who,  beneath  the  sod, 
Hidden  away  from  mortal  eyes , 

Were  at  the  mercy  of  their  God. 

You  had  been  taught  that  He  was  great, 
And  only  hoped  He  might  be  good.— 

An  awful  thought  that  you  must  join 
This  silent  neighborhood! 


VESTA  A.  R.  C  HOC  KETT.— JAMES  O.  BROWN.  743 


No  one  remembers  now  the  day 

They  buried  you  on  Copp's  Hill  side; 

No  one  remembers  you,  or  grieves 
Or  misses  you  because  you  died. 

I  see  the  grave  and  reverend  men 
And  pious  women,  meek  and  mild, 

Walk  two  by  two  in  company, 
The  mourners  for  this  little  child. 

The  harbor  glistened  in  the  sun, 
The  bell  in  Christ  Church  steeple  tolled, 

And  all  the  playmates  cried  for  her, 
Miss  Polly  Townsend,  nine  years  old 


Mrs.  J.  Henry  Crockett,  whoso  maiden  name  was  Vesta  Ann  Reynolds  was  born  in 
Canton,  Oxford  County,  Me  ,  in  183(3  Received  her  education  in  the  public  and  High 
Schools  of  Livermore  and  Canton,  nvwtly  under  the  tuition  of  Jacob  Loveiov  one  of 
Maine's  poets.  In  1858  she  married  Vlr.  S.  E  Grilfeth,  of  Dixfield  where  she  resided 
for  twenty-six  years.  After  the  death  of  Mr.  Griffeth,  she  married  Mr.  J.  Henry  Crock 
ett,  of  Portland,  where  she  no\v  lives.  In  her  early  years,  over  the  nom  de  plume  of 
Inez,  she  wrote  for  the  Boston  Cultivator,  and  LadieJ  Enterprise,  one  of  the  first  papers 
edited  by  ladies.  In  later  life  alia  wrote  for  tlie  GtipoJ.  Banner,  the  Canton  Telephone 
and  other  Maine  papers,  and  occasionally  wrote  humorous  plays  for  local  entertainments. 

TO  MRS.  ELLIOT  SMITH. 

SUGGESTED    BY   HER    POEMS. 

With  the  ear  of  thy  spirit  thou  catchest  the  chime 
Th it  camss  from  t'.ie  minstrelsy,  s  icre  1,  divin?, 

To  set  it  to  music  for  souls  less  refined, 
In  the  sweet  sounding  touches  of  delicate  rhyme. 

With  the  eye  of  thy  spirit  thou  seest  afar, 

Into  landscapes  of  beauty  by  angels  endowed; 

Thy  pen  paints  the  pictures  beyond  the  veiled  bar, 
And  our  hearts  are  responsively,  silently  bowed. 

Thy  spirit's  fresh  youth,  crowned  with  riches  of  age, 
Now  mirrors  rare  teachings  on  life's  open  page; 

Thy  flowers  of  thought  to  our  home-soul  are  given; 
Their  fragrance,  their  beauty,  shall  bless  us  in  heaven. 


fjtis  (jjhott  jit{awn. 


James  Olcott  Brown,  second  son  of  John  B.  and  Ann  Matilda  (Greely)  Brown  was 
born  in  Portland,  Oct.  28,  1836.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College  in  1852,  and  was  graduated 
with  honors,  in  1856.  Shortly  after  leaving  college,  he  became  associated  with  his  father 
and  elder  brother  in  the  firm  of  J.  B.  Brown  &  Sons,  then  extensively  engaged  in  the 


744  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

West  India  trade,  and  in  the  manufacture  of  sugar.  In  1860  he  married  Emily  Kemble 
daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  Henry  K.  Oliver,  of  Salem,  by  whqm  he  had  one  daughter' 
who  died  in  1880.  He  began  to  write  at  an  early  age— fifteen  years— and  his  boyish  effu 
sions  were  good  enough  to  be  F  published  in  the  Portland  Advnttser  and  the  Portitind 
Transcript.  In  1856,  while  a  student  at  college,  he  published  "  The  Kain,"  in  Putin, m's 
Magazine.  This  poem  at  once  attracted  attention,  was  attributed  to  various  distin 
guished  authors,  and  was  widely  copied  in  the  newspapers  of  the  time.  Other  verses 
were  printed  in  the  Boston  Transcript,  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Putnam's  Maq- 
azirte,  and  the  Criterion,  then  the  leading  literary  weekly  He  died  Aug.  15  IXCA  at  the 
beginning  of  what  would,  doubtless,  have  proved  a  successful  literary  career,  for  although 
in  the  last  years  of  his  life,  the  engrossing  car--s  of  business,  and  the  stormy  excitements 
of  the  civil  war,  were  unfavorable  to  his  poetic  production,  he  never  ceased  from  liter 
ary  work.  The  examples  of  his  writings  here  given  belong  to  his  youthful  period  but 
he  left  behind  him,  in  a  fragmentary  and  unfinished  state,  the  outlines  and  skeleton  of 
important  works,  sufficiently  complete  to  show  that  if  he  had  lived  to  finish  them  they 
would  have  given  him  high  rank  among  the  literary  men  of  the  age. 


THE  RAIN. 

Dusty  lies  the  village  turnpike,  and  the  upland  fields  are  dry, 

While  the  river,  inly  sighing,  creeps  in  stealthy  marches  by; 

And  the  clouds,  like  spectral  Druids  in  their  garments  old  and  gray, 

Sweeping  through  the  saddened   silence,  fold  their  sainted  palms  and 

pray. 

As  their  tears  of  tender  pity,  soft  and  chrismal  trance  the  plain, 
All  the  birds,  like  sweet-mouthed  minstrels,  blend  their  tuneful  notes 

again, 

With  the  blinkling  and  the  sprinkling 
Of  the  gentle  summer  rain. 

Tangled  in  the  dreamy  meshes  of  the  soft  and  slumberous  haze, 
How  the  rain-drops  thrill  the  spirit  in  the  mild  September  days; 
Pouring  on  the  golden-tinted  autumn  splendor  of  the  leaves, 
Rustling    through   the   yellow  grain  fields   and   the  reapers'    standing 

sheaves- 
How  they  swell  the  silver  streamlets,  how  they  brim  the  land  with  glee ! 
So  our  lives  shall  brim  with  pleasure,  pulsing  like  a  living  sea 

At  the  clattering  and  the  pattering 

Of  the  joyous  autumn  rain. 

Sadly  as  when  harp-strings  quiver,  wildly  as  a  wail  of  doom, 
Unappeased  the  night-wind  surges  through  the  elemental  gloom. 
All  the  inner  life  is  winsome,  though  the  outer  dark  be  chill, 
And  my  passing  thoughts  are  fancies  of  a  balm-entranced  will — 
I  will  charm  the  fleet-winged  hours,  they  shall  fold  their  pinions  fair, 
While  I  sit  and  dreamful  listen,  reading  legends  old  and  rare, 

To  the  roaring  and  the  pouring 

Of  the  noisy  winter  rain. 

RUTH. 

When  the  sunlight  kissed  the  hill-tops, 
In  the  dew  of  early  morn, 


JA ME$  OLCOTT  BBO IV N.  745 


Ruth  went  out  behind  the  reapers 
Through  the  golden  shocks  of  corn. 

Patience  gleaned  with  her  the  pastures, 
Hope  sobbed  softly  in  her  sighs, 

Love  lit  up  her  trembling  features, 
With  a  glow  of  Paradise. 

Then  said  Boaz  to  the  reapers, 

"Hers  be  all  that  each  man  leaves, 

Trouble  not  the  Jewish  maiden, 
Let  her  glean  among  the  sheaves." 

Long  the  master  loved  to  linger, 
Looking  backward  o'er  the  plain, 

Seeing  then  a  sweeter  treasure 
Than  the  summer-scented  grain. 

Ruth  no  longer  haunts  the  pastures, 

Sobs  no  more  amid  the  corn, 
Follows  not  the  other  reapers 

Through  the  dewy  fields  of  morn. 

But  the  harvest  songs  from  meadow, 
Slumberous  hill-side,  billowy  plain, 

Bear  the  tidings — "She  is  mistress 
Over  all  the  rustling  grain." 

There  when  Love  and  Hope  and  Patience 
Glean  the  pastures  God  has  sown, 

Softly  angel-songs  shall  welcome 
All  the  reapers  as  his  own. 


THE  LITTLE  BAREFOOT  MAIDEN. 

Down  the  valley  sweet  with  clover, 
In  the  evening's  scented  gloom, 

Tripped  a  little  barefoot  maiden 
Ankle-deep  in  rosy  bloom; 

Singing  ever  simple  snatches 
Picked  from  poems  humbly  wrong] it 

By  the  world's  forgotten  workers 
In  the  little  lanes  of  thought. 

Fast  the  still  and  starless  gloaming 
Flooded  all  the  lower  land, 

And  the  dusky  hills  grew  gloomy* 
Like  the  shadows  of  God's  hand. 

49 


746  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


But  the  little  maiden  singing 

Still  the  minor  songs  of  faith, 
Felt  the  poet's  inspiration 

And  the  hope  that  conquers  death. 

Nestling  snug,  her  father's  cottage 
Wooes  the  summer  balm  close  by, 

Just  across  the  rippling  river 
Where  the  fields  of  barley  lie. 

And  she  knows  the  little  lattice 
Twinkles  with  its  evening  light, 

Though  the  damp  and  darkling  forest 
Lies  between  her  and  the  sight. 

Through  the  valley,  o'er  the  river, 

White  feet  slipping  very  fast 
Up  a  little  graveled  pathway, 

Touch  the  threshhold — home  at  last. 

Treading  valleys  dim  and  spectral, 
With  what  faltering  feet  we  tread, 

Where  the  silent  river  noweth 
By  the  pastures  of  the  dead. 

Are  there  hands  outstretched  to  greet  us, 
Beckoning  o'er  the  flowing  tide  ? 

Are  there  warm  hearts,  watching,  waiting, 
Praying  on  the  other  side  ? 

Would  you  give  your  boastful  learning, 
All  your  rentals,  all  your  ships, 

For  the  perfect  faith  that  rippled 
Through  the  little  maiden's  lips  ? 


»*». 

Miss  Emma  Marie  Cass  is  a  native  of  Maine,  and  now  resides  at  Hallowell.  She  is  of 
New  Hampshire  ancestry,  being  connected  cm  the  paternal  side  with  the  Cass  family  ot 
which  General  Lewis  Cass  was  a  member,  he  and  her  grandfather  being  cousins  On  t h 
completion  of  her  education  she  entered  upon  the  work  of  teaching  school,  whicii  slit, 
at  length  abandoned  for  literary  and  art  work.  She  is  very  successful  as  a  landscape 
painter,  and  has  had  marked  recognition  as  a  writer,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  As  do 
many  others,  Miss  Cass  is  inclined  to  believe  that  the  power  to  appreciate  the  beautiful, 
is  as  great  a  gift  as  the  ability  to  create  it. 

MY  NEIGHBORS. 

Little  brown  birds  in  the  elm-tree  high, 
Swayed  by  the  lightest  winds  that  blow, 

There  in  yaur  leafy  home,  close  to  the  sky, 
Afar  from  earth's  tumult  and  woe, 
Surely,  some  things  you  must  know : 


CH A RLES  HENE T  R O  WE.  747 

That  groundlings  below  you  can  never  reach 

Things  that  must  ever  a  mystery  be — 
Do  you  understand  the  white  stars'  speech  ?— 

As  they  float  on  a  cloudy  sea, 

Do  you  catch  their  minstrelsy  ? 

The  winds  take  a  tenderer  tone,  meseems, 
When  they  come  to  your  downy  chamber  high, 

And  the  moonlight  falls  in  mellower  gleams, 
O  baby-birds,  where  you  lie, 
Close  to  the  All- watchful  Eye ! 

When  all  the  breezes  are  fast  asleep, 

And  night  shuts  down  on  the  tiny  nest, 
When  the  heavens  their  nightly  dew-drops  weep, 

And  the  great  red  sun  in  the  west, 

Obeying  his  Maker's  behest, 

Has  put  on  his  flaming,  fiery  light — 

A  blighting,  withering,  pitiless  thing! — 
Then  your  small  life's  troubles  are  put  to  flight; 

As  you  lie  'ncath  the  mother- wing, 

No  sorrow  can  torture  or  sting. 

You  heed  no  sound  from  the  world  below — 

The  great  hard  world  that  can  never  rest — 
Its  tides  may  come  or  its  ftdes  may  go, 

But  never  disturb  or  molest, 

Or  ruffle  one  small  brown  breast ! 


vwe. 

Rev.  Charles  Henry  Kowe,  A.  M.,  was  born  in  Guilford,  Me.,  Jan.  19,  1834,  the  son  of 
Dea.  Jacob  arid  Clara  (Haskell)  Rowe.  His  parents  soon  after  returned  to  New  Glouces 
ter.  their  native  town,  and  this  became  the  family  home.  He  was  fitted  for  college  at 
Hebron  Academy,  and  graduated  at  Colby  University  in  1858,  and  at  Newton  Theologi 
cal  Institution,  Massachusetts,  in  18G1.  He  became  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  Church 
Augusta,  in  18G2.  but  after  two  years  of  marked  success,  resigned,  and  was  appointed  by 
President  Lincoln,  Chaplain,  U.  S.  A.  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  became  pastor  of  the 
Stoughton  Street  Baptist  Church,  Boston,  Mass.,  and  afterward  at  Wollaston  Heights 
and  Cambridge.  He  is  now  pastor  at  Whitman.  He  has  served  as  an  assistant  editor 
on  both  of  the  denominational  papers  of  Boston.  He  early  showed  a  literary  taste;  was 
the  class  poet  at  Senior  exhibition  in  college,  and  has  written  from  time  to  time  poems 
that  have  found  a  place  in  the  papers  and  elsewhere.  He  gave  last  year  the  poem  at  the 
Memorial  Day  exercises  G.  A.  R.,  Whitman.  He  married  Miss  Fannie  H.  Kalloch,  dau^h- 


.  , 

ter  of  Rev.  Amariah  Kalloch,  of  Augusta,  Me.,  in  1866.    They  have  three  children  Henry 
K.,  Grace  Marion,  and  Mabel  Fannie. 


ALL  NIGHT  IN  PRAYER. 

All  night  in  prayer  with  God ! 

The  evening  shadows  cover  with  their  midnight  veil, 
The  evening  stars  grow  bright,  and  with  the  morning  pale, 

All  night  in  prayer. 


748  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


All  night  in  prayer  with  God! 

No  listening  ear  of  mortal  caught  the  pleading  prayer, 
No  weak  disciple.  sic  epinir,  watched  the  gateway  there. 

All  night  in  prayer. 

All  night  in  prayer  with  God! 

The  sobbing  of  a  mortal  heart  crushed  with  the  woes  of  men, 
The  turning  of  the  Holy  back  to  the  pure  fount  again. 

All  night  in  prayer. 

All  night  in  prayer  with  God! 

The  wandering  angels  come,  and  on  the  mystic  ladder  climb; 
The  lowly  One  on  earth  is  heard,  while  hushed  is  angel  chime. 

All  night  in  prayer. 

All  night  in  prayer  with  God! 

Mysterious  hour  when  thus,  in  secret,  Jesus  pleads, 
And  burdened  hearts,  in  climbing  God-ward,  leads. 

All  night  in  prayer. 

All  night  in  prayer  with  God ! 

Alone  he  prays.     The  deep,  unfathomed  prayer  at  last 
Sinks  into  siknce,  and  with  earliest  dawn  is  past. 

All  night  in  prayer. 


ertimh  jjjjaMron  ||7/t/w;w, 


Mrs  I  Gertrude  W.  Whitman  was  born  in  Buckfield,  the  home  of  many  distinguished 
authors  'oct  28  1849,  find  spent  her  childhood  where  rose  in  grandeur  "Old  Streaked 
Mountain."  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  James  N.  Waldron,  a  well-to-do  farmer,  and 
bec-ui  to  write  both  poetry  and  prose,  at  the  age  of  twelve  years.  Mrs.  Whitman  is  one 
of  thirteen  children,  a  noteworthy  fact  in  these  degenerate  times,  and,  in  1872,  married 
a  young  medical  student,  Alden  C.  Whitman,  a  graduate  at  Dartmouth,  and  the  follow 
ing  year  settled  in  Bucktield,  where  they  still  reside,  "  far  from  the  madding  crowd,"  as, 
after  a  few  years  of  hard  practice,  her  husband  became  disenchanted  with  his  chosen 
profession,  and  purchased  a  retired  farm.  Mrs.  Whitman  hopes  soon  to  publish  a  novel, 
and  also  a  volume  of  her  poems. 

DIVORCED. 
June-time!  the  air  is  laden  with  the  scent  of  countless  flowers, 

The  spring  has  worn  its  vernal  life  away; 
The  opera  of  the  birds  in  leafy  bowers 

Rings  sweetest  music  through  the  summer  day. 

I  wonder  if  dissension  ever  comes 

Within  the  nest  of  those  sweet  singing  birds; 
Do  their  soft  liquid  notes  grow  cold  and  harsh 

And  lose  the  melody  of  loving  words  ? 


LA  UR  A  ELIZA  BETH  RICHARDS.  749 

It  seems  to  me  so  very  sad  and  strange 
That  those  whom  love  has  joined  in  closest  bands, 

Should  ever  let  the  silken  fetters  break, 
Nor  even  seek  to  clasp  the  slipping  strands. 

We  would  not  take  a  tender  tropic  plant, 

And  place  it  in  the  chill  November  blast, 
And.  shutting  out  the  sunlight  day  by  day, 

Expect  its  bright  luxuriance  still  to  last. 

But  yet,  the  very  tenderest  flower  of  all, 

The  love,  that  seemeth  of  the  soul  a  part, 
Is  often  left  to  perish  of  neglect, 

And  find  its  sepulchre  in  a  bleeding  heart. 

My  life  was  erst  as  joyous  as  a  bird's — 

I  never  dreamed  that  sorrow's  cloud  could  lower, 
And  basking  in  the  radiance  of  Love's  sun, 

I  sipped  the  sweetness  from  each  passing  hour. 

But  when  the  sun  swung  highest  in  the  sky, 
While  yet  Love's  wine  o'erflowed  the  chalice  rim, 

Indifference,  like  a  slowly  dropping  pall, 
Trailed  its  black  shadow,  sun-bright  things  to  dim. 

I  saw  the  star  of  love  grow  pale  and  faint; 

I  watched  its  fluttering  life,  from  day  to  day; 
And  through  down-sweeping  mists  of  dark  despair, 

Beheld  its  last,  its  last  expiring  ray. 

In  vain  I  sought  to  recreate  anew 

The  golden  splendor  of  a  vanished  day; 
I  was  not  alchemist  enough  to  wring 

From  those  dead  ashes  e'en  the  faintest  ray. 

A  wedded  life,  unhallowed  thus,  became 

To  me  at  once  a  mockery,  and  a  wrong, 
So,  shrinking  from  the  sin  it  would  involve, 

I  dwell  alone  within  the  realm  of  song. 

Yet  there  are  thousands  with  sad  hearts  estranged, 

Beneath  the  arching  dome  of  yon  blue  sky, 
Whose  hopes  'lie  wrecked  upon  a  barren  shore, 

Whose  wedded  lives  are  but  a  living  lie! 


ticti<trd$. 


Laura  Elizabeth  Richards,  daughter  of  Samuel  Gridley  Howe  and  Julia  Ward  Howe, 
was  born  in  Boston,  Feb.  27,  1«50.  In  1871  she  married  Henry  Richards,  and  has  lived  for 
sometwelve  years  in  Gardiner,  Me.  She  lias  published  several  stories  for  children,  "  Five 
Mice  in  a  Mo  use-  trap,"  "The  Joyous  Story  of  To  to,"  etc..  etc.,  and  a  volume  of  chil 
dren's  verses,  entitled  "  Sketches  and  Scraps;"  but  no  collection  has  ever  been  made  of 
her  more  serious  poems. 


750  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


ALEXANDER. 

CZAR   OF    ALL   THE    RUSSIAS.       1886. 

Hist !  is  it  here  ? 
Look !  is  it  there  ? 

Will  it  come  this  way  ? 
In  what  corner  now  is  it  lurking, 

The  death  that  waits  me  to-day  ? 

Yonder  my  guards  stand  marshalled, 

Stately,  in  splendid  guise. 
Does  one  of  them  wait  for  a  signal, 

That  he  measures  me  thus  with  his  eyes  ? 

Those  women,  whispering,  clustering, 

Hard  by  my  palace  door; 
Do  they  carry  the  death  'neath  their  mantles?' 

Women  have  clone  it  before. 

This  cripple,  stretching  a  withered  hand 

For  alms,  at  foot  o'  the  stair : 
See!  his  other  hand  creeps  to  his  bosom, 

What  is  it  seeking  there  ? 

Hist !  is  it  here  ? 
Look !  is  it  there  ? 

WTill  it  come  this  way  ? 
In  what  corner  now  is  it  lurking, 

The  death  that  waits  me  to-day  ? 

Sitting  alone  in  my  chamber, 

Bolted  and  chained  and  barred, 
Hark !  do  I  hear  a  footstep 

Beside  the  tramp  of  the  guard  ? 

A  footstep  stealthily,  softly, 

Creeping  near  and  more  near! 
And  there  again,  is  it  only 

My  own  breathing  I  hear  ? 

Shadows  crouch  low  in  the  corner,. 

Dusky,  with  eyes  that  gleam. 
Hideous  shapes  at  the  window 

Flit  by,  like  a  drunkard's  dream. 

What !  am  I  mad,  as  they  whisper  ? 

Mad,  and  dreaming  it  all  ? 
Waiting— ah,  God !  almost  longing 

For  a  blow  that  may  never  fall  ? 


LAURA  E  LIZ  ABE  TH  RICH  ARDS.  751 


No!  look,  where  he  stands  in  the  doorway 

Is  that  in  his  hand  a  knife  ? 
Ready,  my  hand,  with  the  pistol! 

Let  it  be  life  for  life ! 

*  *  *        •       *  # 

Hist !  is  it  here  ? 
Look !  is  that  there  ? 

Will  it  come  this  way  ? 
From  what  corner  now  is  it  stealing, 

The  death  that  seeks  me  to-day  ? 


THE  NIXIE. 

The  Nixie  maiden,  so  white  and  soft, 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
The  Nixie  maiden  so  white  and  soft, 

How  shall  I  tell  what  she  did  to  me  ? 

She  came  through  the  waves  when  the  white  moon  shone, 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
She  came  when  I  walked  on  the  sands  alone, 

With  a  heart  as  light  as  a  heart  may  be. 

Soft  as  the  crest  where  it  curls  and  curls, 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
White  as  the  glint  of  her  own  white  pearls, 

The  Nixie  maiden  she  came  to  me. 

She  looked  in  my  eyes:  she  smiled  and  sighed, 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
She  said  she  was  weary  of  wind  and  tide, 

She  said  she  would  stay  on  the  shore  with  me. 

She  lay  on  my  arm  like  a  child  at  rest, 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
She  slipped  her  soft  hand  into  my  breast, 

And  stole  my  poor  heart  away  from  me. 

And  again  she  smiled,  and  again  she  sighed,     • 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
Then  down  she  slipped  through  the  shining  tide, 

And  the  sea-depths  hid  her  away  from  me. 

Ay  me !  I  walk  on  the  sands  alone, 

(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 
Ay  me!  'tis  so  cold  when  one's'heart  is  gone! 

I  knew  not  before  what  cold  might  be. 

Is  that  the  gleam  of  her  soft,  bright  hair  ? 
(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 


752  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Are  those  her  eyes  that  shine  on  me  there? 
Is  she  coming  again  through  the  waves  to 

Ay  me!  I  shiver  with  cold  and  pain, 
(Drift  o'  the  wave  and  foam  o'  the  sea,) 

But  the  Nixie  maiden  comes  never  again, 
Never  again  comes  my  heart  to  me. 


\  yjare 

Miss  Selena  W".  Paine  is  a  native  of  Bangor,  residing  in  the  family  of  Hon.  Albert  W. 
Paine.  All  of  her  poems  have  a  meaning,  and  possess  a  dainty  and  delicate  finish  that 
only  the  true  poet  can  infuse  into  metrical  creations. 


THE  CHAPEL  IN  THE  HEART. 
Thrice  happy  is  the  man  who  keeps. 

From  other  things  apart, 
A  secret  room,  a  holy  place, 

A  chapel  in  his  heart. 

For  there,  when  all  the  world  outside 

Grows  dark  upon  his  sight, 
He  can  retire  and  find  within 

His  chapel  full  of  light. 

And  there,  when  jangling  sounds  of  earth, 
Discordant,  fill  his  ear, 
He  can  repair  and,  listening, 
The  eternal  music  hear. 

And  there,  from  praise  and  blame  unjust, 

Alone,  he  can  confess, 
In  genuine  humility, 

His  own  an  worthiness. 

And  there,  when  golden  in  his  way, 

Temptation  spreads  a  snare, 
Before  he  falters,  he  can  flee 

For  refuge  and  for  prayer. 

Thrice  happy  is  the  man  who  keeps 

From  other  things  apart 
This  secret  room,  this  holy  place, 

This  chapel  in  his  heart. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER  AND  THE  POET. 

An  old  philosopher  once  caught, 
As  if  by  chance,  a  winged  thought. 


UAERIET  LEWIS  BRADLEY. 


It  was  so  delicate  and  bright, 
He  wished  it  put  in  words  aright 
To  hold  it  fast,  that  all  might  see 
And  feel  its  charm  as  well  as  he. 

He  searched  his  rarest  books  in  vain; 
He  racked  for  naught  his  learned  brain. 
The  words  he  found  they  were  so  long, 
They  were  so  clumsy,  weighty,  strong, 
That,  when  he  made  a  cage  withal, 
One  scarce  could  see  the  thought  at  all. 

At  last,  by  failure  sore  dismayed, 
He  called  a  poet  to  his  aid. 
But,  when  he  held  his  cage  in  view, 
So  very  dim  the  thought  shone  through 
He  feared  the  seer  ne'er  would  guess 
One  half  its  real  loveliness. 

At  first,  with  sadly  puzzled  mien, 
The  poet  gazed  the  bars  between, 
But  soon  his  eye,  his  brain  caught  fire: 
He  made  a  cage  beyond  desire, 
Where,  gently  prisoned,  seeming  free, 
The  thought  was  held  for  all  to  see. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  *t  was  done, 

That  thus  the  thought  and  word  were  one. 

His  sentences  were  simple,  few; 

He  took  a  simile  or  two;  — 

But,  when  he  made  the  cage  withal, 

One  never  dreamed  it  cage  at  all. 


Unmet  |tw/s  §r<idleti. 


Miss  Harriet  L.  Bradley  is  a  native  of  Portland,  where  she  was  educated.  She  is  now 
a  favorite  contributor  to  the  pages  of  Hary>?.n?  publications,  The  Atloniic,  and  other 
leading  magazines,  and  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  promising  authors  of  the  Pine 
Tree  State.  Miss  Lradley,  at  the  present  time,  is  traveling  abroad. 


LOOKING  TOWARD  THE  SUNSET. 

The  weary  day  is  over,  and  the  burden  it  has  brought 
We  may  leave  until  the  morrow,  with  its  burning  bitter  thought, 
And  the  peace  that  follows  conflicts  comes  o'er  the  busy  town 
As  we  stand  in  the  open  door- way  watching  the  sun  go  down. 

There's  a  hush  throughout  the  forests,  scarce  a  murmur  in  the  land; 
There  are  sighings  mid  the  breezes  that  we  cannot  understand, 


754  Tiib  POKTS  OF  MAL\h. 


To  our  asking  thus  they  whisper,  gazing  toward  the  crimson  sea, 
Look  you,  there  the  king  lies  dying!  ah  me,  that  such  must  be. 

Full  of  awe,  I  looked  before  me,  toward  the  monarch  of  the  sky, 
Dying  on  his  couch  of  purple  as  a  king  alone  can  die. 
Golden  mountains  cast  their  shadows,  jewels  flash  around  his  head; 
Royal  splendors  cannot  keep  him,  he  is  going— he  is  dead. 

And  the  throne  without  the  master  fadeth  slowly  into  night, 
From  the  wondrous  tinted  hangings  gently  falls  the  tenderJight. 
Down  across  the  fields  of  clover,  far  beyond  the  river  dim, 
While  the  singers  of  the  woodlands  join  in  nature's  evening  hymn. 

Sweetly  swells  the  chorus  upward,  lulling  all  the  flowers  to  sleep, 
Merrily  chimes  in  the  brooklet  rippling  downward  to  the  deep; 
And  the  air  is  full  of  music,  gently  floating  overhead 
Songs  of  courage  for  the  living,  songs  of  victory  for  the  dead. 

Quiet,  happy  summer  evening — would  your  peace  might  always  stay 
With  the  weary  working  people  struggling  through  life's  crowded  way; 
Would  the  day  were  ever  closing  when  we,  standing  with  the  rest, 
Bow  beneath  the  benediction  coining  from  the  golden  west. 

Looking  forward  to  the  sunset,  many  thoughts  come  down  to  me 
Of  our  happy,  careless  school  life,  what  ha*  been  and  what  may  6e; 
Thoughts  of  the  unknown  hereafter  that  unto  us  all  shall  come, 
Which  can  only  be  unfolded  when  all  "weary  days"  are  done. 

Darkness  deepens,  night  is  coming,  every  bird  has  sought  its  nest; 
Up  above  the  stars  are  shining,  down  below  the  world's  at  rest, 
And  the  twilight  gathering  slowly  drives  me  from  the  open  door; 
In  my  heart  the  sunset  lingers,  gone  without  for  evermore. 


rthnr 


Rev.  Arthur  J.  Lockhart  was  horn,  May,  5  1850,  in  .1  village  which  took  its  name  from 
the  family  of  which  he  is  a  member,— Lock  hartville,  township  of  Horton,  Nova  Scotia. 
His  father,  a  sea-captain,  was  of  Scotch-Irish  descent,  and  his  mother  of  French— her 
name  Bezanson;  ancestry  from  the  old  town  of  Bjsaugou.  The  subject  of  our  sketch 
was  early  enfeebled  by  an  accident,  and  has  b^en  all  his  life  of  delicate  health.  Books, 
especially  of  poetry,  and  solitary  rambles  have  been  his  delight  from  childhood.  He 
learned  the  trade  of  a  printer,  in  Wolfville,  N.  S.,  and  after  a  year  of  journey-work, 
entered  the  ministry  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  in  East  Maine,  in  June,  1872, 
which  profession  he  has  since  followed,  no\v  located  at  East  Corinth.  Mr.  Lockhart  has 
three  sons  arid  two  daughters.  With  his  brother,  also  a  preacher  and  poet,  Mr.  Lock- 
hart  has  published  a  volume  of  verse  entitled  "A  Masque  of  Minstrels."  etc.  He  has,  also, 
in  MSS.,  "  Fireside  Recreations,"  "  Acadian  Anthologia,"  etc.,  and  various  uncollected 
poems  and  essays. 


ON  ISLESBORO. 

I  sit  by  the  sea,  this  evening, 
On  this  isle's  enchanted  shore, 


ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART.  755 


And  I  list  to  the  voice  that  hath  charmed  me 
In  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

And  still  the  spell  comes  o'er  me, 

As  the  lisping  ripples  creep ; 
For  I  hear  the  tongue  of  Ocean — 

The  lips  of  the  mighty  Deep ! 

Beyond  the  golden  waters 

I  see  the  sun  go  down; 
And  the  purple  hills  are  dreaming 

Afar  over  Camden  town. 

And  the  white  sails  that  are  stealing 

Adown  the  quiet  bay, 
To  the  haunted  shores  I  see  not, 

Are  bearing  my  thoughts  away. 

For  Ariel  glide th  near  me, 

And  a  new  Miranda's  face* 
Hath  made  a  tranquil  sunshine 

In  this  sweet  and  shady  place. 

I  hold  in  my  hand  a  volume, 

That  one  has  given  to  me, 
With  a  spray  of  the  keen  wild  briar, 

That  has  grown  beside  the  sea;— 

Till,  with  the  mingled  memories — 
The  fragrance  of  long-flown  years, 

And  the  soothing  song  of  the  Poet, 
My  heart  is  touched  to  tears. 

For  this,  to  me,  is  a  casket 

That  doth  precious  things  enshrine ; 
And  the  voice  of  a  heart  is  uttered 

In  many  a  hurried  line. 

'Tis  no  wine-filled  vase,  fine  car ven, 

With  figures  sleek  and  slim; 
'T  is  an  earthern  bowl,  with  life-blood 

That  mantles  to  the  brim. 

And  he,  whose  song  this  evening 

Still  holds  me  by  the  sea, 
Had  a  sense  of  the  unseen  beauty, 

And  the  unheard  melody. 


*My  mind  was  then  filled  with  images  of  "The  Tempest,"  which  I  had  just  been 
re-reading. 


756  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


But  the  Bard  hath  ceased  from  singing, 

Whose  eye  hath  privilege 
Of  the  lighted  land  immortal, 

Through  the  shade  of  the  "Covered  Bridge.'" 

0  Poet i*— all  men's  brother! 
Where'er,  to-night,  thou  art, 

My  kindred  spirit  greets  thee 
With  these  beatings  of  my  heart. 

If  thou  hadst  faults  I  ask  not, 

Nor  what  was  thy  chosen  creed; 
For  the  poor  and  oppressed  and  trodden, 

I  only  hear  thee  plead. 

1  look  not,  scrutinizing, 

For  the  faults  that  all  may  find; 
Thou  hast  sung  the  songs  that  may  hearten, 
And  unify  mankind. 

And  I  dream  I  should  go  to  see  thee, 

From  this  splendid  sunset  shore, 
But  thy  place  is  the  home  eternal, 

And  thou  canst  be  seen  no  more. 

But,  perhaps,  when  these  dreams  are  over, 

And  the  painful  toiling  ends, 
In  the  land  where  the  shadows  are  not, 

We  may  meet  as  old-time  friends. 

THE  BOYS  IN  WINTER. 

The  moon  is  up,  the  sky  is  clear,  the  frosty  air  is  still, 
And  gleams  to-night  the  crusted  snow  that  lies  upon  the  hill: 
Come,  with  your  sleds!— our  starting  point  is  where  yon  spruces  grow — 
And  let  us  have  a  merry  hour  a-sliding  on  the  snow! 

Ha!  are  there  wrinkles  on  our  brows,  and  gray  in  beard  and  hair? 
And  are  not  these  the  caps  and  mitts  we  school-boys  used  to  wear? 
And  are  not  these  the  self-same  hearts  of  long  and  long  ago? 
And  are  not  we  the  boys  that  went  a-sliding  on  the  snow  ? 

Come!  let  us  go  and  join  the  lads!— we'll  laugh  at  their  surprise!  — 
And,  when  our  hearts  are  light  as  theirs,  their  shouts  shall  louder  rise; 
We'll  sing  an  ancient  song  or  two,  they'll  whistle  sharp  and  shrill, 
And  make  the  dark  old  wood  ring  out  from  underneath  the  hill. 

We're  men,  but  yet  we  won't  forget  that  we  Lave  once  been  boys; 
We'll  take  a  little  dash  of  fun,  and  make  a  bit  of  noise; 

*  David  Barker. 


ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART.  757 

We'll  give  these  leathery  cheeks^of  ours  a  warmer,  healthier  glow; — 
So  take  your  sleds,  and  let  us  get  to  sliding  on  the  snow ! 

Ah,  who  would  be  the  churlish  elf,  that  childhood's  life  destroys, 
Who  frowns  upon  the  children's  mirth,  and  spurns  their  simple  joys  ? 
I  trow  to  stoop  awhile  to  them  might  do  his  spirit  good, 
And  waken  in  his  shrunken  veins  a  little  wholesome  blood. 

I  don't  forget  the  winter  days  when,  after  school  was  done, 
We  took  our  sleds  to  yonder  hill,  and  primed  our  hearts  with  fun; 
The  ridgy  drifts  were  pearly  white  'neath  sunset's  ruddy  glow, — 
And  ah,  but  we  were  merry  boys  a-sliding  on  the  snow ! 

How  flew  the  pleasant  hours  away,  until  the  sun  was  set! 
Then  underneath  the  glittering  blue  again  we,  shouting,  met! 
And  all  the  girls,  with  floating  curls,  and  cheeks  as  warm  as  June, 
With  sweeter  voices  came  to  hail  the  rising  of  the  moon  ! 

They  joined  our  crew,  and  quite  o'erran  our  foaming  cup  of  mirth; 
We  yoked  our  sleds  upon  the  hill,  and,  singing,  sallied  forth ; 
The  twisted  smoke  from  farm-house  fires  rose  in  the  vale  below, — 
Ah,  'twas  a  merry  bout  we  had,  a-sliding  on  the  snow! 

And  there  was  one— O  well  ye  knew  the  sweetness  of  that  face  ! 
The  heart  of  woman's  gentleness,  the  form  of  woman's  grace! — 
'Twas  always  summer  where  she  went,  wherein  our  love  could  grow;— 
Come  back !  dear  faded  face,  so  long  beneath  the  winter  snow ! 

Come!  join  the  lads!— I  hear  them  call!— we  will  not  lag  behind, 

But  show  the  world  a  nimble  foot,  and  eke  a  cheerful  mind: 

I  would  not  wish  to  see  my  boys  act  cold,  and  harsh,  and  strange, 

For  hearts— the  manliest  part  of  men— should  suffer  least  from  change. 

What  have  we  gained  by  growing  old,  if  Time  away  have  borne 
The  fruit  and  flower,  and  we  have  reaped  the  thistle  and  the  thorn! 
What  have  we  gained  if,  making  grief  and  care  our  only  store, 
The  freshness  of  our  earlier  days  our  hearts  may  feel  no  more ! 

O  had  we  kept  our  childhood's  hearts,  when  boyhood  went  away, 

The  years  might  not  have  scarred  our  brows,  nor  turned  our  heads  so 

gray ! 

Life  might  have  more  of  tear  and  smile,  and  less  of  fret  and  frown, 
And  restless  care  with  hundred  hands  forget  to  drag  us  down. 

Come!  hear  them  sing! — Such. music  bids  the  moping  drudge  depart! 
The  sunshine  of  a  cheerful  mind,  it  opens  up  my  heart: 
The  moon  is  high,  the  sky  is  clear;  arise!  and  let  us  go, 
And  have  an  hour,  a  merry  hour,  a-sliding  on  the  snow ! 


758  THE  POETS  OF  MA  I NE. 


Sargent  -was  born  in  Frankfort,  Me.,  June  13,  1850.  Leaving  there  in  1837,  her 
home  Avas  for  twelve  years  in  Hallowell,  where  she  took  a  thorough  course  in  the  city 
schools.  She  removed,  \vith  her  parents,  to  Augusta,  in  18C9,  assuming  the  position 
of  a  teacher,  which  vocation  she  followed  until  1872,  when  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Chas. 
C.  Hunt  of  Hallowell.  From  1877  to  1882  Mrs.  Hunt  was  Corresponding  Secretary  of  the 
State  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union,  and  following  her  resignation  at  the  latter 
date,  she  entered  upon  the  duties  of  State  Vice-President  of  the  Woman's  American 
Baptist  Home  Missionary  Society,  also  serving  as  general  Vice-President  of  this  society. 
In  1885  she  became  editor  and  publisher  of  the  Home  Mission  Echo,  the  organ  of  the 
Baptist  women  of  Kew  England.  Mrs.  Hunt  has  made  numerous  contributions  of  prose 
and  poetry  to  several  leading  journals,  writing  sketches  of  travel  as  opportunity  oll'ered, 
devoting  her  writings  mainly  to  the  interests  of  the  special  branches  of  work  with  which 
she  has  been  actively  connected. 


THE  MESSAGE. 

On  the  shore  the  waves  are  plashing, 
'Gainst  my  tent-roof  rain  is  dashing — 

What  a  day! 

Of  the  moaning  pine-trees  weary, 
Gloomy  is  the  day  and  dreary, 

So  we  say. 

Pleasant  lake  seems  like  the  ocean, 
Tossing  in  its  wild  commotion, 

Cold  and  grey. 

Boats  and  men  to  shore  are  speeding, 
Or,  from  view  in  haste  receding, 

Sail  away. 

Hark!  on  storm-tossed  tree-top  swinging, 
Little  bird  is  sweetly  singing, 

High  in  air; 

This  his  message,  hope  awaking: 
"Friends  below,  the  clouds  are  breaking, 

Don't  despair." 

Brother,  sister,  worn  and  weary, 
Let  thy  face  grow  bright  and  cheery, 

Don't  despair. 

Trusting  God,  thy  Burden-Bearer, 
Thou  shalt  find  a  loving  sharer 

Of  thy  care. 

Life  has  not  unbroken  sorrows, 
Sad  to-days  bring  glad  to-morrows ; 

Storms  will  cease. 

Through  the  clouds  the  light  is  stro;iming, 
Soon  the  sunshine  will  be  gleaming — 

Then  comes  peace. 


ANNA  SARGENT  HUNT.  759 


THE  CHILD'S  PKAYER. 

[At  the  Annual  Meeting  of  the  American  Baptist  Home  Mission  Society  in  New  York, 
in  1882,  Mrs.  J.  S.  Dickers-oil,  of  Chicago,  referred  to  the  following  prayer  of  her  little 
daughter  to  illustrate  the  necessity  of  individual  effort  in  the  mission  work.] 

Sweet  Grade,  the  light  of  the  household, 

Hath  knelt  in  the  twilight  hour, 
Commending  the  friends  that  she  loveth 

To  the  Father's  keeping  power. 
Xot  one  of  her  pets  is  forgotten, 

Her  kitten,  her  dog  and  doll, 
But  deeper  in  meaning  the  favor 

She  asks,  while  the  shadows  fall. 

"  And  now  wilt  thou  bless  the  old  black  cat, 

The  cat  with  the  great,  green  eyes, 
That  wanders  alone  in  our  garden, 

I  'm  sad  when  I  hear  her  cries." 
Thejnother  looked  down  on  her  darling — 

The  child  of  her  tender  care, 
Android  her  she  need  not  remember 

All  cats  in  her  evening  prayer. 

The  bright  face  grew  earnest  and  thoughtful, 

And  clouded  with  strange  surprise, 
But  the  light  of  the  child's  true  instinct 

Flashed  out  from  the  sparkling  eyes. 
And  straightway  she  questioned  her  mother, 

"  Well,  now  will  you  please  to  say, 
If  I  did  not  think  of  the  black  cat, 

Who  elite  for  its  good  would  pray  ?  " 

Ah,  Gracie  had  mastered  the  lesson 

We  tardily  come  to  heed, 
But  always  there  wait  for  our  footsteps 

Earth's  lowliest  ones  in  need. 
"Who  else,"  if  we  turn  from  their  pleading, 

Will  unto  their  rescue  spring  ? 
41  Who  else,"  to  the  feet  of  the  Master, 

These  sheaves  for  the  harvest  bring  ? 

There  are  sorrowing  hearts  to  cherish, 

"  Who  else"  will  the  tear-drops  dry, 
"  Who  else"  will  be  friends  to  the  friendless, 

While  the  fleeting  years  go  by  ? 
At  last,  when  our  service  is  ended, 

How  sweet  will  His  greeting  be : 
"Inasmuch  as  for  these  ye  labored 

Ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 


760  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE 


Rose  Maxim  was  bom  in  Buekfield,  Me.,  Aug.  .30,  13">0.  tlrj  seventh  of  a  tamily  of  ten 
children.  She  has  always  live*!  in  th^  country.  Her  opportunities  for  obtaining  an  edu 
cation  in  her  youth  were  very  limited,  but  she  ma  le  go<>;l  use  of  her  spire  moments,  and 
the  means  at  her  Command;  thus,  finally,  securing  a  fair  e  hrjitiou.  Slri  did  not  IM^III 
to  write  at  any  period  within  her  recollection,  having  been  a  versMii  iker  from  childhood. 

GROWING  OLD. 

The  days  go  from  us  one  by  one, 

And  busy  with  our  worldly  cares 
We  do  not  heed  the  setting  sun, 

And  age  comes  on  us  unawares. 
Though  we  can  see  how  others  fail, 

We  boast  our  strength  in  language  bold 
But  whitening  locks  will  tell  the  tale, 

And  tell  it  true — we're  growing  old. 

The  children  that  but  yesterday 

Around  our  knees  were  prattling 
To-day  are  youths  and  maidens  gay 

As  birds  that  in  the  morning  sing; — 
Then,  though  with  joy  our  pulses  thrill, 

The  fleeting  hours  we  cannot  hold; 
Life's  noon-day  passes  swifter  still, 

And  so  we  all  are  growing  old. 

The  places  where  in  childhood's  hour 

With  careless  heart  we  used  to  play — 
The  favorite  tree,  the  common  flower, 

The  giant  rock,  the  old  pathway — 
Have  lost  their  charm ;  and  even  so 

Our  youthful  friendships  have  grown  cold, 
We  wonder  why  but  do  not  know 

Or  think  that  we  are  growing  old. 

Our  faces  mirrored  in  the  brook 

Were  radiant  once,  and  fresh  and  fair, 
But  now  we  do  not  care  to  look, 

For  years  have  left  their  impress  there; 
And  so  we  pause  beside  the  stream, 

One  backward  glance  and  all  is  told ; 
The  past  comes  o'er  us  like  a  dream, — • 

We  find  that  we  are  growing  old. 

O  Time,  why  must  thy  heavy  hand 

Pencil  our  brows  with  lines  so  deep  ? 
And  silently  let  fall  thy  sands 

Like  snow-flakes  o'er  us  while  we  sleep  ? 


ELLEN  Me  KG  BEETS  MASON.  761 


Yet  happily  we  feel  it  true- 
That,  as  eternal  years  unfold, 

We  all  shall  youth  and  strength  renew 
And  nevermore  be  growing  old. 


Ellen  McRoberts  was  born  in  Baldwin,  Cumberland  County,  Oct  5  1850  of  Scotch-Irish 
parentage  on  the  father's  side.  She  was  educated  after  the  usual  nSn'ner  o  'farmers' 
daughters,  at  the  different  high  schools  and  academies  of  the  country  ad  at  ^e  Farm- 
ington  Normal  School  She  was  a  teacher  for  a  short  time,  until  1873,  when  she  was 
married  to  Mahlon  L.  Mason,  of  North  Conway,  N.  H.,  the  proprietor  of  one  of  The 
many  summer  hotels  there,  the  Sunset  Pavilion,  and  more  recently  also,  proprietor  'of 
a  large  hotel  at  Bndgton,  in  this  State.  Mrs.  Mason's  literary  career  has  ;  beeuii 
her  marriage,  and  it  is  chiefly  from  her  short  stories  and  (lescriptive  L  tfcles  that  have 
appeared  occasionally  in  the  Boston  Sunday  Courier  the  Sunday  Herald  the  New 
Hamshire  fl//  '  ' 


ourer        e      unay      erald    the    N 

Hampshire  flra/t/te  .Monthly,  the  Porttend  Prawand  'Avr/Mrr^  that  Shfto'  known 
a  writer.     Her  stories  have  been  commended  by  .John  G.  Whittier.     She  has 
rUnitedt0  *  ^  teilder  aPPre<^tion  of  nature  i 


Phases  tat  haveheUnfet0  *,  T  teil,der  aPPre<^tion  of  natue  inaHit 

ses,  that  have  been  fostered  by  being  among  the  grand  and  beautiful  scenes  of  her 
mountain  home.     Mrs.  Mason  is  at  present  traveling  in  Germany  as  special  correspond 

on  HeraM-  she  has  a  hosfc  of  frie"d8*  both  in  ^KJftff 


MY  MONITOR. 

My  little  boy  with  large  eyes  eager  wide, 
And  lips  a-tremble,  piteous  to  see, 

Comes  often  slow  and  gravely  to  my  side, 
And  humbly,  lowly  asks,  "Do  you  love  me 


" 


With  kiss  and  fond  embrace  [  answer  him, 
A-grief  to  see  the  pretty  face  so  sad, 

Still  swimming,  tender  tears  the  blue  eyes  dim, 
He  pleads:  "And  do  you  love  me  when  I  'm  bad 

How  oft  we  grieve  the  Father's  loving  heart! 

How  oft  rebellious  are,  dear  little  lad; 
He  pardons  when  we  choose  the  wrong,  sad  part, 

And  loves  us  evermore,  though  we  are  bad! 

So  may  much  patience  mingle  with  my  love, 
And  1  grow  fitter  still  to  counsel  thee 

With  purest  wisdom  given  from  above, 
And  may  the  patient  Father  bear  with  me  ! 

A  CHRISTMAS  MEMORY. 
Within  a  dear  old-fashioned  room, 
All  flooded  with  a  rosy  bloom, 
In  the  fire's  gleeful  blaze  and  glow 
I  watch  a  vision  come  and  go. 


762  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

A  Christmas  thirty  years  ago, 
The  world  without  up-piled  with  snow, 
Gray,  early  day  and  children's  din, 
And  merry,  happy  hearts  within. 

Glad,  happy  hearts  save  all  but  one, 
And  his,  whose  life  was  last  begun, 
The  pet  and  darling  of  the  rest, 
The  one  I  always  loved  the  best. 

-My  troop  of  boys,  I  see  them  now, 
Grave  Jamie,  with  his  thoughtful  brow, 
And  Will  and  Georgie  full  of  glee, 
As  handsome  lads  as  you  might  see. 

And  Robin  with  his  glowing  face, 
And  earnest  eyes  and  witching  grace, — 
Ah,  I  shall  see  long  as  I  live 
That  little  mouth  so  sensitive ! 

But  Rob  had  been  a  naughty  boy, 
And  so,  instead  of  longed-for  toy, 
Above  his  stocking  jammed  and  thick, 
1  hung  a  cruel,  slender  stick ! 

"  Mamma,  does  Santa  Claus  hate  mef 
The  tear-wet  face  was  sad  to  see! 
"That— stick— I  did  not  think  he  would 
I've  tried  so,  lately,  to  be  good!" 

1Tis  years  agone. — I'm  growing  old, 
And  many  feelings  have  grown  cold, 
But  when  the  vision  comes  again, 
I  feel  the  olden  thrill  of  pain ! 

Por  soon  there  was  a  little  mound 
Thrown  up  above  the  frozen  ground, 
And  the  pure  white  and  blessed  snow 
Soft  hid  the  scar  of  my  great  woe. 

Though  many  sins  and  many  a  wrong 
Have  been  mine  since,  forgot  ere  long, 
This  ever  comes  at  Christmas  time 
To  haunt  my  age,  as  in  my  prime! 

I  feel  now  we  are  far  apart, 
How  sore  I -grieved  the  tender  heart! 
And  I  shall  see,  long  as  I  live, 
That  little  mouth  so  sensitive! 


AULO  BATEU.—DORA  B.  HUNTER.  768 


This  author  was  born  in  East  Machias,  Me.,  Dec.  16,  1850;  graduated  at  Bowdoin  in 
1876,  after  which  he  removed  to  Boston,  and  engaged  in  literary  work.  In  January, 
1878,  he  became  Secretary  of  the  Young  Men's  llapublican  Committee  of  Massachusetts, 
and  editor  of  the  ftroa'lside.  a  paper  devoted  to  civil-service  reform.  In  August,  1830, 
he  became  editor  of  the  Boston  Sn/irl  i,y  Courier.  Besides  numerous  magazine  articles, 
he  has  published  "  Patty's  Perversities,"  "  Mr.  Jacobs,"  "  The  Pagans,"  '•  A  Wheel  of 
Fire."  "Old  Salem,"  (edited),  etc.,  and  a  volume  of  poems  entitled,  "Berries  of  the 
Brier,"  the  last  named  appearing  in  1833.  Mr.  Bates  is  now  in  Florida,  making  soina 
studies  of  Southern  life,  for  literary  purposes. 


A  SHADOW-BOAT. 

Under  my  keel  another  boat 
Sails  as  I  sail,  floats  as  I  float; 

Silent  and  dim  and  mystic  still, 
It  steals  through  that  weird  nether-world. 

Mocking  my  power,  though  at  my  will 
The  foam  before  its  prow  is  curled, 
Or  calm  it  lies,  with  canvas  furled. 

Vainly  I  peer,  and  fain  would  see 
What  phantom  in  that  boat  may  be; 

Yet  half  I  dread,  lest  I  with  ruth 
Some  ghost  of  my  dead  past  divine, 

Some  gracious  shape  of  my  lost  youth, 
Whose  deathless  eyes  once  fixed  on  mine 
Would  draw  me  downward  through  the  brine! 


Miss  Dora  B.  Hunter  is  a  Kriox  County  girl  who  has  written  fine  poems  for  the  Congre- 
gaiionalist,  the  Ckrixticm  Union,  and  our  Maine  Magazine,  Quiet  Hour*.  A  few  years 
since  a  local  poem  from  her  pen,  entitled  "On  the  Assabet,"  appeared  in  the  columns  of 
the  Portland  Transcript,  and  received  deserved  recognition  as  a  production  of  real 
merit.  Miss  Hunter  now  resides  at  Waterville. 


THE  MINUTE-MAN. 

With  his  eager,  resolute  eyes  aglow, 
Alert  for  a  glimpse  of  the  nearing  foe, 
With  his  sturdy  shoulder  backward  thrown, 
Facing  odds  that  he  dare  not  own, 
Ready  to  start  at  the  country's  call, 
To  win  if  God  will— if  He  will,  to  fall, 
Whatever  may  cost  the  impending  strife, 
Home  or  fortune  or  limb  or  life — 
Ready  to  give  what  the  hour  demands, 
The  hero  of  Concord's  story  stands. 


7«4  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Just  as  they  stood  on  that  April  morn 

When  American  liberty  there  was  born ; 

Plows  beside  them,  but  arms  in  hand  - 

They,  the  Middlesex  farmer-band. 

Who  dared  to  dream  that  these  scattered  groups 

Could  rout  the  orderly  British  troops  ? 

That  these  farmer  youth  half-armed,  untrained, 

Could  keep  the  fame  of  their  State  unstained  ? 

But  when  His  Majesty's  soldiers  came 

To  the  spot  now  wearing  so  proud  a  name, 

The  minute-men  marched  down  from  the  ridge 

And  won  the  day  at  the  old  North  Bridge. 

Concord  river  in  quiet  flows 

Past  the  spot  where  the  English  dead  repose, 

And  one  hundred  years  has  that  night's  renown 

Been  the  heritage  of  the  peaceful  town. 

Along  the  stream  the  historic  sod 

Is  bright  with  daisies  and  golden-rod, 

With  never  a  hint  of  the  bloody  light 

That  was  won  by  the  Concord  yeomen'  s[might. 

But  the  minute-man  is  standing  now 

In  his  valor's  strength,  beside  his  plow. 

On  the  spot  where  he  fought  at  his  country's  call 

A  grateful  people's  memorial. 

Does  any  one  ask  his  rank  or  worth, 

His  fortune,  family,  name  or  birth  ? 

This  was  a  lad  whose  brave  right  arm, 

Raised  in  the  moment  of  dire  alarm, 

When  first  the  sound  of  the  foeman's  gun 

Resounded  through  Concord  and  Lexington, 

Ne'er  fell  to  his  side  till  in  dawn's  gray  light 

The  patriot  fanners  had  won  the  tight. 

But  his  name— his  name— do  you  ask  again  ? 

He  was  one  of  the  famous  rninute-men ! 


Mrs.  N.  M.  Burns,  the  daughter  of  Dr  Newell  Sherman,  of  Waltham,  Mass.,  and  wife 
of  Thomaa  H.  Burns,  of  Kittery  Point,  Me.,  was  born  in  Waltham,  Mass.,  where  her 
«hild  life  was  passed  and  her  education  received.  For  the  past  ten  years  her  permanent 
residence  has  been  at  Kittery  Point,  and  prior  to  this  she  was  a  summer  sojourner  for 
successive  years  beside  the  inspiring  Gulf  of  Maine,  replete  with  its  thousand  unwrit 
ten  legends,  its  formless  poems,  still  waiting  a  master-hand  to  mould  them  into  living 
beauty  Very  lovely  is  historic  old  Kittery,  leaning  on  her  shattered  piera-with  her 
crass-grown  ruins  and  pathetic  landmarks  looking  toward  the  blue  water-roads.  Echoes 
of  thrilling  events  haunt  the  weird  shore,  and  fancy  is  ever  stimulated  by  the  dreamy 
iurroundings. 


NELLIE  MA  RLE  B  URNS.  765 


IX  OLE  WHISPERS. 

GATHERED      FROM     I.EOKN'DS    OF     THE      PICTURESQUE     HARBOR-TOWN    OF 

K  ITT  Eli  Y. 

In  Anglo-Erse  Teutonic  phrase,  Six  sable  cats  with  eyes  of  gold, 
Two  ancient  cronies  gabbled,  Each  mounted  by  a  Pixy, 

And  raked  the  fire  of  bygone  days  Led  out  the  witch  from  glimmer- 
Till  streams  of  Fayland  babbled.  wold 

They  said,  "A  hundred  years  ago  °'er  ^er-passes  tricksy. 

Yon  cooing  pines  were  switches;  The  dance  begun,  the  sables  run, 

Then  Cunning-men   wrought  good      The  Pixies  urged  them  faster^ 

folk  woe  Prince  Loke  bowed  to  the  Xaughtj 

And  Warlocks  danced  with  Witch-  One 

She  courtesied  to  her  master. 
Now  gloaming  glints  above  the  Mil    The  jrate  wo]f  ^  ^^^ 

And  autumn  leaves  are  falling,  Awoke  the  cHm.sea_roach 

Their  sorry  bird,  the  wUp-poor-wm,  wild  wiiard.i,ou^  alld  ma(1'     „_ 

For  punishment  is  calling.  ^ 

The  years  have  sent  the  pine  boughs      Made  terrible  the  beaches. 

The  fen-land  king  on  roan  of  blue. 

Andchil  ed  thehands  that  planted,      His  sword  and  sa(](||e  blaid 
But  left  a  tale  by  ford  and  fire  Across  th(j  withere(,  R  fl«; 

Of  incantations  chanted-  To  join  the  orue]  hazing 

By  one  who  loitered  unaffearecl 

Near  midnight  stile  and  wicket;      fhe  velvet-coated  Fleder-miue 
The   brown-owl's   chum -a   woman,  Daunted  the  scene  uncanny; 

weirt|  Whispers   inane  crept  through  the 

From  larnved's  spectral  thicket.  house, 

1  he  woodtick  beat  the  cranny. 
Auld  Jamie  Bell  and  Gowen  Higlit, 

With  ninety  horse-shoes  girded       ^°  life  was  safe>  no  one  could  sleep 
And  wish-bone  mailed— upou  a  night      For  clatter  on  the  ledges, 
Watched  while  the  phantoms  herd-  'For  howling  dogs  and  bleating  sheep 
ed.  Witched  by  the  water-edges; 

The  Alder-swamps  with  Ghost-lights  Cattle    were    cast,    and    dreaming 

gleamed,  swains 

A  bridge  of  smoke  extended  Transformed  to  service-horses; 

From    Godmoroke,    o'er     Brauboat  The  blasted  crops  and  emptied  wains 

streamed  Tradition  still  endorses. 

And  in  the  ocean  ended. 

Brau-viking-Ben  came  sailing  o'er 
Sir  Lucifer  came  down  the  bridge*          The  sea-road  rough  and  eerie, 

Accoutered  for  a  ramble,  Red  flambeaus  blazed  from  Apple- 

To  greet  the  Lady  of  the  Ridge  dore 

And  dance  about  the  bramble.  A  signal  for  his  dearie. 


766  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Wee  sonsie  Madge— alack  the  night  Since  kindly  hands  the  grasses  placed 
She  met  her  lover  lawless;  Above  the  russet  Queenie, 

The  billows  rolled  in  angry  white  Where  creeping  vines  are  interlaced, 
Above  her  sweet  face  flawless—  With  flowers  rare  and  weenie. 

Close  pillowed  on  the  pirate's  heart,  Ah,  happy  Witch!  your  sedgy  shore 
His  clasp  no  wave  could  sever;  In  pleasant  moments  idle, 

They  drifted  down  no  more  to  part,  The  gay  will  seek  and  feel  once  more 
Where  surges  sing  forever."  Your  light  fantastic  bridle. 

The  cronies  ceased— by  fagot-flare      When  summer  o'er  fair  Kittery 

We  left  them  at  their  knitting,  Broods  in  its  golden  glory, 

Their  men-in-buckram  through  the  GO  down  to  the  suspiring  sea, 

air  And  launch  some  waiting  dory. 

And  round  the  ingle  flitting. 

Upon  those  wraves  forever  blue 
The  (  antrap-folk  appear  no  more,          Float  past  the  old  piers  rotten; 

But  still  the  legend  lingers,  Delicious  dreams  will  come  to  you 

With   Clootie's   hoof-prints   on   the      Qut  of  the  years  forgotten. 

shore. 
And  impress  of  his  fingers.  Then  drift  away  to  Chauncey  Creek, 

Lean  on  your  oars  and  listen; 
And  oft  where  dimpling  waters  flow  The  whispering   pines  will   faintly 

To  kiss  the  ferns  and  mosses,  speak 

They  hide  beneath  the  thatch-beds     The'waj.er'  dent  and  giisten. 

low 
To  trick  the  foot  that  crosses.          The  marvellous  will  wait  until 

The  callow  eye  advances, 
Next  morn  we  sought  by  shore  and  when  moon%{lt  Qver  TinmVg  mu 

Sends  down  its  mellow  glances. 
O'er  bramble,  stile  and  meadow, 

To  find  at  last  the  weird  one's  grave  Then  water-sprites  will  urge  your 
Anear  the  wildwood  shadow.  boat, 

-,      Birds  whistle  from  the  dingle; 
Long  sprays  of  droopii-g  golden-rod 

u    ,        •-    Mysterious  melodies  upfloat, 

Leaned  o'er  and  seemed  to  love  it;      JA  /..     ,' 

And  bells  of  elf-land  jingle. 
Wild  camomile  bedecked  the  sod 

And  scattered  blooms  above  it.        The  fairies  of  oid  imsheen, 
Along  her  banks  the  leaves  were  red,      "  Red    Cap'^and    "White    Owl's 

Whistled  the  tiny  plover, 
And  in  the  copsewood  overhead          From  bogie-ciels  that  lie  between 

We  saw  the  kestrel  hover.  The  Shamrock  and  Scotch-heather, 

A  hundred  years  her  elfin-rills,  Have  loaned  their  cousins  o'er  the 

With  quaint  and  waltzing  motion,  sea 

Have  wandered  down  her  awesome      Their  witch-drum  and  air-quiver, 
hills,  To  swell  the  sylvan  minstrelsy 

And  danced  toward  the  ocean,  Of  this  enchanting  river. 


GEORGE  W.   W.  HOUG1ITON.  7«7 


jjoitglifan. 


Born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1850,  and  removed  when  ten  years  of  age,  with  his 
parents,  to  Robbinston,  near  Calais,  Me.  All  of  his  earliest  recollections  are  centred  in 
that  picturesque  and  romantic  region,  and  Mr.  Houghton  has  spent  many  of  his  summer 
vacations  on  the  Maine  coast.  Several  summers  have  been  enjoyed  by  him  at  York  Har 
bor,  and  one  at  ancient  Newcastle,  with  his  literary  friend,  Mr.  John  Albee,  also  a  poet. 
Both  gentlemen  have  written  fine  poems  on  "The  Legend  of  Walbach  Tower,"  Great 
Island,  Mr.  Houghton's  version  appearing  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Several  'popular 
volumes  of  verse  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Houghton  bear  the  well-known  imprint  of  The 
Riverside  Press,  among  which  we  may  mention  "Niagara,  and  Other  Poems,"  "  St 
Olaf's  Kirk,"  etc.  Mr.  Houghton  now  resides  in  the  City  of  New  York,  and  is  editor  of 
an  illustrated  monthly  magazine,  The  Hub.  A  narrative  poem  on  Icelandic  literature 
by  Mr.  H.,  may  ere  long  appear. 


ALONG-SHORE. 

AN    EXTKACT. 

On  Maine's  rough  coast-line,  where  its  rocky  front 
Frowns  most  forbiddingly,  with  sudden  break 
A  small,  blue  river  pours  into  the  sea, 
And  widening  forms  a  harbor,  pent  but  safe; 
Behind  which,  half-concealed  by  button- woods, 
The  church-spire  of  Old  York  lifts  to  the  winds 

Its  weather-cock. 

Below  this  spire,  a  town, 
Where,  truant  from  the  city  dials,  come 
The  lazy  hours  to  lose  themselves  in  dreams 
And  sweet  forge tfulness  of  summer  heat; 
An" idle  sort  of  place,  where  all  day  long 
It  seems  like  evening  w|th  the  day's  work  done, 
Where  men  haste  not,  because  there  is  no  haste, 
And  toil  but  little,  for  they've  little  need; 
A  restful  corner,  where  the  August  breeze, 
From  softly  listening,  finger  on  the  lip, 
At  length  from  listlessness  falls  fast  asleep, 
Till  there  is  no  sound  heard  save  now  and  then, 
Low  thunder  of  a  wagon  on  the  bridge, 
Some  shrill  cicada  from  his  citadel, 
Beneath  a  thistle,  challenging  the  noon, 
The  whet  of  scythe  and  heavy  hoist  of  sail, 
Dip  of  unseen  oars,  monotonous, 
And  softly  breathing  waves  that  doze  below, 
Too  weak  to  more  than  turn  themselves,  complain, 
And  doze  again. 

********* 
Here  from  this  knoll, 

The  stretch  of  the  blue  ocean  breaks  in  view, 
Flecked  only  by  white  sails,  a  tiny  spire 
White  like  a  sail,  but  still,— 
Boone  Island  Light; 


7<58  TIJh  POETS  OF  MA1XE. 


And  southward,  like  shy  clouds  that  may  dissolve, 
The  Isles  of  Shoals,  far  glimmering. 

********* 

Here,  when  red  sundowns  set  the  west  aflame, 
The  view  is  glorious.     Far  oil'  to  the  north 
The  jealous  land,  with  every  wave  of  tide, 
Sends  out  into  the  surf  a  long,  slim  arm, 
And  rolls  and  measures  in  its  hollow  hand 
A  rocky  isle.— the  Nubble,  it  is  called,— 
Glad  land-fall  unto  many  a  hungry  eye, 
That  in  those  early  days,  before  a  sail 
E'er  whitened  York's  small  harbor,  strained  to  catch 
Some  token  of  the  new,  half-doubted  world. 
Next  circling  like  a  sickle,  toward  us  bends 
A  yellow  beach,  the  Long  Sands;  then,  black  rocks; 
Among  which,  like  the  gloomy  lurking-place 
Of  some  sea-creature,  darkens  a  huge  cave, 
In  whose  recesses,  when  the  tide- waves  flux, 
A  hollow  murmur  echoes,  heard  far  off, 
With  sighs  and  breathings  strange,  unspeakable, 
That  deepens  as  the  night-hush  settles  down. 


art!  j§Hen  jjlanqhayd. . 


f  Mary  E.  daughter  of  Charles  B.  Blanchard,  was  born  in  Pembroke,  Me.,  March  27, 
1851.  Frail  in  health,  she  never  attended  a  whole  term  of  school,  but  picked  up  shreds 
of  knowledge  here  and  there,  being  both  bookish  and  observant.  In  May,  1871,  she 
entered  the  office  of  the  Portland  Advertiser*  and  served  an  apprenticeship  at  type-set 
ting.  Going  to  Boston,  she  became  a  compositor  for  some  months  on  the  New  England 
Farmer,  and  later,  for  Rand,  A  very  &  Co.  On  account  of  broken  health  she  gave  up  her 
position,  and,  returning  to  Maine,  settled  beneath  her  father's  roof,  at  household  and 
occasional  literary  work.  In  the  spring  of  1885,  she  published,  by  subscription,  self- 
solicited  and  delivered  in  person  and  by  mail  an  edition  of  her  poems,  under  the  title, 
"  A  Storv  of  Pysche  and  other  Poems."  This  book  was  in  every  respect  a  complete  suc 
cess.  Miss  Blanchard  has  regained,  in  a  measure,  her  health,  and  is  writing  more  exten 
sively  in  prose  and  verse,  and  with  nattering  results.  She  still  resides  in  Calais. 

THE  WELCOME  HOME. 

'T  was  morning  in  heaven,  'twas  night  on  the  earth, 

And  angels  were  gathered  death's  river  anear, 
To  welcome  a  soul  to  the  holier  birth, 

And  sung,  in  their  gladness,  an  anthem  of  cheer, 
The  pure  and  the  loyal,  the  loving  and  blest. 

All  joined  in  the  music  of  perfect  accord: 
",We  welcome  thee,  spirit,  by  sorrow  oppressed,— 

Yea,  enter  thon  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord ! 

"..We  welcome  thee  home  from  the  darkness  and  care, 
The  trial  and  weariness,  doubting  and  fear. 


MA E  Y  ELLEN  BLA NCHA  RD. 


Hail !  blest  of  our  Father,  no  longer  despair, — 
The  journey  is  ended,  the  guerdon  is  here; 

Here,  safe  in  the  kingdom,  no  more  to  depart, 
Where  love,  never  fading,  is  sorrow's  reward, 

Are  all  the  dear  idols  long  lost  from  thy  heart, 
O  enter  thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord!" 


GRANDMOTHER'S  CUPBOARD. 

I  remember  the  cupboard  prim  and  old, 

With  its  button  forever  loose, 
And  the  row  of  tilings  on  the  upper  shelf 

That  were  seldom  put  to  use; 
The  bowl,  as  pink  as  a  kitten's  toes, 

In  a  corner  by  itself, 
And  the  teapot  brown  of  the  battered  spout, 

That  was  king  of  the  middle  shelf. 

I  remember  the  line  of  plates  that  stood 

Where  the  tea-cups  made  a  group, 
And  the  antique  sliip  on  the  sp.icious  dish 

That  was  used  for  beans  and  soup; 
The  "holder"  rude  and  its  pewter  spoons 

That  leaned  o'er  the  edge  of  glass, 
To  crack  dumb  jokes  with  a  merry  leer 

At  the  bottle  of   "  pepper-sass." 

For  the  bottle  was  lank  and  tinged  with  green, 

And  its  crown  was  made  of  cork, 
And  the  peppers  their  palmy  days  had  seen 

When  Adam  began  to  walk. 
Hard  by  was  the  box  that  held  the  knives, 

And  a  magic  it  surely  hid, 
For,  whenever  we  fumbled  for  a  knife, 

We  got  but  a  fork  instead. 

I  remember  the  little  dumpy  jug 

That  seemed  to  stare  and  grin, 
And  the  treacle-bowl  and  the  dish  for  salt, 

And  the  pepper-box  of  tin; 
And  the  pie-plates  crumpled  at  the  edge, 

And  the  platter  brave  to  see, 
With  its  Chinaman  in  a  funny  hat 

By  a  big  cerulean  tree. 

I  remember  the  cooky-crock  that  stood 
Just  under  the  tier  of  shelves, 


770  7  HE  P OETb  O F  M  A I  Ar E. 


And  two  lawless  imps  that  seized  the  chance 
To  scramble  and  help  themselves; 

For  the  button  hung  loosely  on  its  nail 
And  the  door  would  open  swing, 

And  to  rob  a  grand  ma  old  and  fond 
Was  so  very  fine  a  thing. 

THE  SAND  STORM. 

Fierce  noontide  quivers  on  a  reach  of  sand, 
Across  whose  white,  aweary  and  with  pain, 
Pants  a  black  motion,  while  a  hurricane, 
Far  off,  drives  forward,  as  waves  drive  to  land, 
Churning,  upheaving,  roaring  in  a  grand 
Slaughter  of  calm;  while  the  long  caravan 
Breaks  as  fleets  break  in  storm,  and  beast  and  man 
Struggle  like  drowning  things  who  view  a  strand. 
The  hot  dry  storm  darkens  the  scorching  glare, 
And  whirls  in  wrath  along  the  endless  waste, 
And  one  huge  camel,  which  for  long  hath  paced 
The  desert  ways,  uplifts,  as  in  despair, 
His  gaunt  worn  neck  high  in  the  stifling  air, 
And  sinks— and  from  the  tumult  is  effaced ! 


Clara  Richardson  was  born  in  Wins  low,  Me..  Dec.  2,  1850,  a  fanner's  daughter,  the  old 
est  of  a  family  of  eight.  She  was  sent  to  school  in  her  fifth  year,  and  received  the 
fn  efocnK  ^\^^\'^  the  town  school,  where  she  learned  readily,  and  excelled 
in  e  ocution.  She  has  taught  several  terms  of  common  school,  and  written  for  various 


SPINNING. 
Idly  I  watch,  as  summer  days  are  passing, 

The  dainty  form  of  yonder  maiden,  sweet, 
With  hair  like  gold,  with  blue  eyes  shyly  glancing, 

Song  on  her  lips,  and  time  from  fairy  feet. 
As  round  and  round  the  busy  wheel  is  humming, 

The  white  hand  glides  the  slender  threads  along, 
And  swifter  whirls  the  bright  sharp-pointed  spindle. 

Till  in  a  trice  the  fluffy  roll  is  gone. 
These  threads  may  be  the  warp  and  woof,  when  woven, 

Of  mantle  gay,  or  blanket  fine  and  warm, 
Perchance  a  scarf  for  lover,  friend  or  brother, 

Perchance  a  coat  to  shield  from  wintry  storm. 
But  whatsoe'er  those  swift,  deft  fingers  fashion, 

I  know  no  vagrant  whim  her  mind  shall  share; 


MARY  E.    WAEREN.-ALBEET  IL  HOLMES. 


771 


Filled  is  her  soul  with  thoughts  both  high  and  noble, 
Yet  deems  it  sweet  each  humble  task  to  bear, 

May  every  thread  that  time  in  ceaseless  whirling 
Is  drawing  fortli  to  form  thy  web  of  life 

Be  even  drawn,  be  wove  with  matchless  firmness, 
Be  pure  and  bright,  with  spotless  beauty  rife. 


1/1/7;   (KxSttwn  Mxrren. 


Mary  E    Warren  was  born  in  Fryeburg,  Dec.  5,  1851,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Otis  and 
Maria  L.  Warren,  and  received  her  education  at  Fryeburg  Academy.    She  has  passed 
most  of  her  life  in  that  old,  historic  hamlet.    Miss  Warren  has  written  poems  f< 
ous  publications,  some  />f  them  to  tit  musical  airs,  and  for  occasions  of  public  interest, 
and  she  is  locally  noted  for  her  taste  in  all  that  relates  to  music  and  literary  matters. 


MEMORIAL  ODE. 
AIR— "LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER." 


When  the  Spirit  of  Free  lorn 

Sought  mountain  and  hill, 
And  the  heart  of  the  nition 

Lay  wounded  and  still, 
Her  sons  nobly  rallied 

At  her  stricken  call, 
And  placed  on  her  altars 

Their  lives  and  their  all. 

When  we  meet  together 

And  our  memories  are  told 
Of  the  march  and  the  bivouac, 

In  the  dark  days  of  old, 
We'll  honor  our  comrades 

Who  fell  from  our  band, 
When  the  thick  clouds  of  warfare 

Hung  low  o'er  the  land. 


Once  more  we  all  gather 

Where  low  sleep  the  brave, 
Our  sweet  floral  tribute 

We  lay  on  each  grave; 
"  O  think  of  them  living,'1 

Say  the  angels  a-nigh, 
They  hive  answered  the  roll-call 

Of  the  army  011  high. 

Let  us,  comrades,  forever 

To  our  country  be  true, 
Long  as  waveth  above  us 

The  red,  white  and  blue; 
When  closed  is  life's  battle, 

And  vict'ry  is  won, 
May  we  each  hear  the  greeting  : 

"Faithful  soldier,  well  done!" 


Ibert  Jj)<irmon 


Albert  Harmon  Holmes  was  born  in  Bridgton,  Me.,  Dec.  14,  1851  Fitted  for  college  at 
North  Bridgton  Academy  in  1807  and  1868.  In  the  spring  of  1870  was  Assistant  in  North 
Conway  Academy.  He  went  to  Montana  early  in  the  spring  of  1872  and  was  there  engaged 
in  teaching.  Returning  to  Maine  in  1875.  the  following  summer  he  entered  Bowdoin 
College,  and  was  graduated  in  the  class  of  1880.  While  in  college  he  excelled  in  mathe 
matics,  taking  the  Smythe  Mathematical  Prize  of  §300.  In  May,  1881,  he  married  Miss 
Lida  W.  Stone,  the  granddaughter  of  the  late  Hon.  Benjamin  Orr,  of  Brunswick,  in 
which  place  he  has  since  resided.  In  the  fall  of  1882  he  went  to  Elurope,  where  he 
remained  six  months,  traveling  in  England,  France,  Germany  and  Italy.  Owing  to  poor 
health  he  has  not  engaged  in  much  business  or  literary  work  since  graduation. 


772  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


TWO  SONNETS. 
MORNING. 

With  airy  touches  dewy  Eos  lays 

Along  the  east  the  paler  tints  of  dawn; 

Then  brighter  colors  deepen,  and  anon 
Shoots  out  a  spear  of  dazzling  golden  rays; 
And  now,  dispelling  swift  the  mantled  haze, 

Bright  glances  forth  the  opened  eye  of  morn, 

And  eager,  busy  life  again  is  born 
As  Earth  swings  upward  on  her  noiseless  ways. 

Ever  a  miracle !    And  as  the  years 
Advance  beneath  fair  Science's  full-orbed  shield, 

Whose  lightening  gleam  the  murky  shadows  clears, 
When  Error  in  his  failing  strife  must  yield, 

Then  shall  we  see,  freed  from  all  doubts  and  fears. 
Truth,  like  the  morn,  in  heaven-born  light  revealed. 

NIGHT. 

The  amber  light  fades  slowly  in  the  west,— 
And  twilight's  restful  shades  now  hasten  down, 
Day's  fever  in  soft  dewy  tears  to  drown 

And  give  to  pulsing  life  refreshing  rest. 

Night  pillowing  Infant  Sleep  on  her  dark  breast 
Smoothes  from  his  brow  the  restless,  wearied  frown, 
And  over  field  and  flood  and  wood  and  town 

On  dusky  wings  pursues  her  silent  quest,— 
But  leaves  a  train  of  shining  stars  behind, 

(Bright  watches  o'er  Day's  newly-covered  grave.) 
So  radiant  birth  from  sorrow-darkened  mind 

Have  ever  noblest  thoughts  and  deeds  most  brave, 
And  there  love's  gems  a  softened  lustre  find 

Like  gleam  of  pearls  beneath  Night's  moonlit  wave. 


I 

John  S.  Colby,  descended  from  Maine  stock  of  several  generations,  on  both  his  father's 
and  mother's  sides,  was  born  in  Manchester,  N  H.,  Nov.  19,  1851.  When  an  infant  he 
was  brought  to  his  grandmother's  home  in  F.ryeburg,  and  his  childhood  was  spent  there 
and  in  Biddeford  and  Andover,— later,  in  Jamaica  Plain,  Lowell  and  Boston.  Mass.  He 
attended  school  in  all  the  places  named,  finishing  his  pupilage  at  'the  Boston  Latin 
School.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  entered  the  printing  office  of  the  Vox  Populi.  Low 
ell,  serving  an  apprenticeship  of  three  years.  Later,  he  tilled  various  positions  at  once 
on  the  paper,  in  addition  to  being  local  editor,  at  the  same  time  acting  also  as  Lowell 
agent  of  the  Associated  Press,  and  correspondent  of  the  Boston  Globe.  In  1876  he  read 
the  poem  at  the  semi-centennial  of  the  organization  of  Lowell  as  a  town;  later,  the 
poem  at  the  dedication  of  the  Ayer  town-hall,  and  (\\  1878  published  a  small  volume 
under  the  title  of  "  Agatha,  a  Romance  of  Maine,  and  other  Poems,"  now  out  of  print. 
He  succeeded  Hon.  John  A.  Goodwin  as  editor  of  the  Vox  Populi,  Jan.  1,  1885. 


j o  ii x  <s  r^i  R  K  COL  n  Y. 


TRIBUTE  TO  FRYEBURG  AND  WEBSTER. 
In  threefold  sort  hath  heaven  its  bounty  poured 
On  thee,  Dame  Fryeburg,  sitting  'mid  thy  hills; 
For  thou  hast  beauty  such  as  stirs  and  thrills 
The  heart  of  Nature's  lover;  thou  hast  hoard 
Of  frugal  competence  and  plenty  stored 

Within  thy  barns  and  fields;  and,  still  the  best, 
As  e'er  by  mothers'  souls  must  be  confessed, 
Brave  sons,  fair  daughters,  round  thine  ample  board. 
But  some  have  left  thy  hearthstone,  far  to  roam; 
And  some  lie  in  thy  church-yards,  near  at  hand, 

Here  where  thou  smiledst  on  their  infancy; 
And  some  there  be  who  left  thy  rural  home, 
And  fell  in  battle  for  their  native  land — 

Their  graves  known  unto  God,  but  not  to  thee! 

Not  thine  the  glitter  of  metropolis, 

Which  oft  th'  unwary  lureth  unto  death; 
Not  thine  the  lordly  city's  fevered  breath, 
In  clutching  after  gold;  and  thou  diclst  miss 
Of  that,  thine  elder  German  cousin's  bliss, 
To  bear  a  son  who  named  a  continent.* 
Thy  matron  modesty  rests  well  content 
Witli  claims  less  brilliant  for  our  homage  kiss, 
With  less  pretentious  titles  to  our  love. 
Thy  simple  duty,  not  the  praise  of  men, 

Before  thine  own  and  children's  eyes  was  set; 
Not  half  this  world,  but  all  of  that  above, 
Thine  offspring  thou  didst  ever  urge  to  win, 

Where  planets  are  but  dust,  which  we  forget! 
One  glory  else  thou  hast.     Here  Webster  came 
Among  thy  shady  lanes,  and  here  he  taught; 
To  thee  first  service  of  his  manhood  brought, 
Ere  wider  fields  his  giant  strength  did  claim. 
His  noble  life  adds  lustre  to  thy  name, 
As  snow  on  Kearsarge  heights,  borne  from  afar, 
Adds  splendor  to  that  crest,  or  as  yon  star 
Lends  grace  to  earth,  its  orbit  not  the  same. 
Yet,  as  that  white-capt  mount  in  but  degree, 
And  not  in  kind,  is  worthier  than  those  hills 

Set  thick  about;  and,  even  as  that  sun 
Is  one  of  myriads  in  immensity, 

All  equal  in  His  sight  who  shapes  and  wills; 
So  each  of  lesser  men  God  counts  as  one. 


*It  is  stated  by  historians,  with  more  or  less  qualifications  of  late,  that  a  geographer 
of  Freiburg,  Germany,  first-  in  1507— designated  the  New  World  on  his  map  as  "America 
Terra"  whence  ''America." 


774  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


au  Catherine  B 


Lewis  F  Starrett,  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume,  who  contemplates  bringing  out 
a  little  volume  of  her  fugitive  pieces,. at  the  solicitation  of  her  many  friends.  For  ten 
years  previous  to  her  death,  Aliss  Starrett  was  a  popular  teacher  of  the  Belfast  High 
School,  and  was  well  known  in  educational  circles  throughout  the  State.  Competent 
judges  have  pronounced  her  literary  work  to  be  of  a  high  order  of  merit. 

CAN  WE  MEASURE  ? 

Life  with  its  subtleness,  life  with  its  passion. 

Life  with  its  peace-havens,  life  with  its  strife, 
Whence  are  its  forces,  and  what  are  its  courses  ? 

Who  in  his  wisdom  can  fathom  his  life  ? 

Deeper,  aye,  deeper  than  hearts  He  has  fashioned ; 

God  ever  dwelleth  in  fulness  apart. 
Dare  we  set  measure  on  infinite  treasure  ? 

Who  through  his  loving  can  fathom  God's  heart  ? 


LOVE'S  TIME. 

One  day  to  wait,  when  Love  is  strong, 
And  panteth  with  its  tense  desire 
To  hold  within  its  glad  embrace 
The  one  responsive  heart,  whose  beat, 
Close-felt,  should  calm  its  pulse  to  peace. 
O  dull  and  sluggard  time,  thy  day 
A  thouand  years !    And  must  we  wait  ? 

Yet  could  we  grasp  unfailing  pledge, 

Thrilling  from  God's  sure  throne  adown, 

That  through  the  dim  and  lengthened  years 

The  heart  of  love  should  ne'er  beat  low, 

Nor  fail  its  tender  pleading  "  Come,"- 

And  that  at  last,  forever  one, 

We  should  look  back  and  know  each  hour 

Of  separation  knit  more  firm 

The  ties  that  bind  us  each  to  each, — 

Glad  were  it  then  to  bide  our  time 

A  thousand  years,  a  day  to  wait. 


glim 


"  Elinor  Gray  "  is  the  pen  name  of  Mrs.  Ellen  O.  S.  Hunt,  the  wife  of  George  F.  Hunt, 
of  Liberty.  Waldo  County.  Me  .  and  daughter  of  Kev.  B.  F.  Shaw  I)  D  ,  of  Waterville, 
a  well  known  Baptist  clergyman.  .Mrs.  Hunt  is  a  native  of  the  "  nine  Tree  State,"  and 
has  passed  the  most  of  her  life,  thus  far,  within  its  borders,  with  the  exception  of  a  res 
idence  of  several  years  in  the  State  of  New  York,  and  in  Boston,  Mass. 


WILBUR  FISK  CRAFTS.  775 


THE  CORNELL  CHIMES. 
Sweet  chimes  of  Cornell,  I  remember  you  well, 
As  oft  on  my'ear  your  gay  greetings  fell; 
How  merrily  pealing,  now  soothingly  stealing. 
With  rythmical  cadence  or  sorrow's  swell. 

From  afar  on  the  hill,  through  the  air  soft  and  still 
With  musical  voicings  the  spirit  you  fill ; 
Floating  over  the  valley,  with  far  echoes  dally, 
And  touch  the  calm  lake  with  a  tremulous  thrill. 

How  exultant  and  gay,  with  a  jubilant  play, 
Have  you  clamored  forth  welcomes  on  many  a  day, 
When  laurels  home  bringing,  with  shouts  and  with  singing, 
The  sons  of  Cornell  have  honored  her  sway ! 

And  solemn  and  slow,  with  resonant  blow, 
Has  the  sad  knell  been  tolled  for  revered  ones  laid  low; 
For  the  loved  most  sincerely  and  prized  the  most  dearly, 
The  noblest  and  best,  and  the  soonest  to  go. 

Chimes  of  Cornell!     What  wonderful  spell 
Have  you  wrought  in  my  spirit,  to  love  you  so  well? 
For  oft  in  my  dreaming,  with  strange,  subtle  seeming 
I  hear  from  afar  the  sweet  chimes  of  Cornell! 


Kev.  Wilbur  F.  Crafts  uas  born  in  Fryeburg.Me..  Jan.  12,  1850,  graduated  at  Wesleyan 
University  in  18C9.  and  at  Hrston  University  School  of  Theology  in  1877.  Has  been  pas 
tor  of  Grace  M.  E.  Church.  Haverhill,  Mass  ;  M  E.  Church,  Dover,  K.  H.;  First  1V1.  E. 
Church,  JS'ew  Bedford,  Mass  ;  Trinity  JV1.  E.  Chinch,  Chicago;  Deehoe  Congregational 
Church.  Brooklyn;  First  Union  Presbyterian  (  lunch,  Jsew  York.  Traveled  in  Europe 
in  1873  and  18^0.  Author  of  ''The  Sabbath  for  IVian."  "Successful  Men  of  To-Day, " 
"Temperance  Century,"  and  of  college  songs  and  Inmns,  the  latter  of  which  have 
appeared  in  "Gospel  Hymns"  and  ""Winnowed  Hymns.'"  Mr.  Crafts  delivered  the  Com 
mencement  Day  poem,  "Wonders  of  Words,"  at  Kent's  Hill,  and  at  the  University 
(Weslejan)  at  Middletown,  Conn.,  awhile  since.  He  married  Miss  Sara  J.  Timanus  May 
1874  '  *' 


THE  WIFE. 

Wife  means  "weaver,"  'tis  said; 

And  when  hearts  truly  wed 
There  is  weaving  that  eye  hath  not  seen: 

Love  itself  is  the  thread, 

And  the  heart-throb  the  tread, 
And  the  web  is  the  robe  of  a  queen. 

Through  the  warp  of  heart-cords 
Shoots  the  woof  of  sweet  words, 
And  the  shuttle  that  drives  them  is  love; 
Fairer  robes  this  affords 


T7H  /  //  K  tj  O  E 1  .S  O  V  MAI  A  A . 


Than  have  princes  and  lords, 
Less  only  than  angels  above. 

Through  the  changes  of  life 

Stands  the  weaver,  the  wife, 
By  the  side  of  the  heart-driven  loom, 

Keeping  out  knots  of  strife, 

While  the  bright  threads  are  rife, 
And  she  weaveth  the  beauty  of  home. 

OUR  HOME. 

Our  home!  what  slia.ll  it  be  ? 
Like  lovely  Bethany, 

A  place  where  Christ  doth  come; 
The  wife,  like  Mary,  sitting  at  the  Saviour's  feet, 
"He  whom  thou  lovest,  Lord,"  the  husband's  title  sweet 
Such  be  our  home. 

Our  life!  how  shall  it  pass  ? 
A  walk  to  Emmaus, 

Where'er  we  live  or  roam; 

Our  hearts,  in  joy  or  sadness,  ever  side  by  side, 
And  burning  with  the  presence  of  the  Crucified— 
Such  be  our  home. 

Into  the  perfect  day 

Our  guide  shall  lead  the  way, 

And  God  shall  whisper,  "Come:" 
And  in  the  mansions  of  the  "Father's  house"  above, 
Our  souls  with  Christ  shall  have  the  life  of  perfect  love- 
Such  be  our  home. 


s  Brands  j^ithardson. 


Prof  Chas.  F.  Richardson  was  bom  in  Hallowell,  Me..  May  29,  1851;  graduated  at 
Dartmouth  1871:  an  editor  of  the  TJie  Neir  York  Independent,  1872-1878;  an  editor  of 
the  Sunday  School  Times,  Philadelphia,  1878-1880;  editor  of  Good  Literature,  New 
York  1880-1882;  Winkley  Professor  of  Anglo  Saxon  and  English,  Dartmouth  College, 
1882  which  position  he  still  holds.  Among  his  published  works,  are  "A  Primer  of  Amer 
ican'  Literature  "  1878;  50th  thousand,  1887;  li  The  College  Book,"  1878,  and  a  volume  of 
relieious  poems  under  title  of  "The  Cross,"  1879.  One  of  his  prose  works  has  been 
reprinted  in  England,  and  translated  into  Hussian.  His  last  work,  "American  Litera- 
tmre,  vol.  1,"  appeared  in  1886. 

THE  BELL-BUOY  ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

PORTLAND   HARBOR. 

All  the  year  long  the  bell-buoy  rings 

Over  the  shoals  in  the  outer  bay, 
But  never  with  sound  as  glad  and  clear 

As  that  which  it  throws  to  the  winds  to-day. 


CHARLES  FRANCIS  RICHARDSON.  Til 

In  summer  noons  and  in  autumn  nights 

It  warned  the  vessel  of  hidden  woes ; 
And  its  weariless  toll,  in  the  fog  and  dark, 

Kept  faithful  watch  as  it  fell  and  rose. 

Its  clang  of  duty,  now  faint  and  far, 

Now  sharp  and  loud  on  the  angry  wave, 
For  twelve  long  months  has  sounded  out 

Like  a  passing  bell  o'er  a  sailor's  grave. 

But  its  brazen  tongue  is  glad  this  morn 

As  it  swings  and  rings  on  the  sunlit  bay; 
Is  it  trying  to  tell  us  that  Christ  was  born 

Far  over  the  wave  on  Christmas  Day  ? 


PEACE. 

If  sin  be  in  the  heart, 

The  fairest  sky  is  foul,  and  sad  the  summer  weather, 
The  eye  no  longer  sees  the  lambs  at  play  together, 
The  dull  ear  cannot  hear  the  birds  that  sing  so  sweetly, 
And  all  the  joy  of  God's  good  earth  is  gone  completely, 
If  sin  be  in  the  heart. 

If  peace  be  in  the  heart, 

The  wildest  winter  storm  is  full  of  solemn  beauty, 
The  midnight  lightning-flash  but  shows  the  path  of  duty, 
Each  living  creature  tells  some  new  and  joyous  story, 
The  very  trees  and  stones  all  catch  a  ray  of  glory, 

If  peace  be  in  the  heart. 


CHARITY. 

Whatever  be  the  sin  that  grieves  my  sight, 
Whatever  wrong  I  struggle  to  make  right, 
Of  sin  and  wrong  more  grievous  I  must  fall, 
If  charity  I  show  not  first  of  all; 
Shall  God  or  man  have  charity  for  me 
When  I,  poor  soul,  refuse  it  unto  thee? 

But  if,  when  sin  and  woe  I  strive  to  heal, 

The  grace  of  charity  I  soonest  feel. 

Then  Christ's  rebuke,  not  mine,  my  life  shall  show, 

For  he  shall  walk  beside  me  where  I  go, 

And  God  and  men  have  charity  for  me, 

Since  I,  poor  soul,  bestow  it  upon  thee. 


r.i 


TlIK  roET*  OFMA1XK. 


i;  Jfostcr  jjnris. 


Rev.  Edgar  F.  Davis  was  born  in  East  Machias,  April  17,  1851.  He  was  Principal  of  the 
Thornaston  High  School  from  1871  to  1873,  having  graduated  from  Bowdoin  in  the  class  of 
1871.  From  1873  to  1876  he  was  also  engaged  in  teaching,  out  of  the  State.  He  studied 
theology  at  the  Yale  Theological  School  from  1876  to  1878.  Was  ordained  pastor  of  the 
Congregational  Church  in  Perry,  Aug.  8,  1878,  and  dismissed  by  council,  June  3,  1879. 
After  supplying  the  Congregational  Church  in  Calais  two  months,  in  the  fall  of  the'  year 
1879,  he  was  settled  over  the  Congregational  Church  in  St.  Stephen,  N.  B.  In  1881  he 
received  a  call  to  the  Congregational  Church  in  Gardiner,  where  he  remained  till  Jan  I 
1888,  when  he  accepted  a  call  from  the  Congregational  Church  at  Woifboro,  N.  H.  and 
immediately  began  his  labors  there.  Mr.  Davis  was  married  in  1874  to  Miss  Elmira  S 
Talbot,  daughter  of  Hon.  S.  II.  Talbot,  of  East  Machias. 


DOMINIE  M' LAUREN. 

In  a  narrow  street  and  lonely  of  a  little  Scottish  town, 
Dwelt  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  in  a  cottage,  old  and  brown. 

Long  this  faithful  under-shepherd  had  his  flock  with  manna  fed; 
Long  the  tender  lambs  protected  and  in  fertile  pastures  led. 

And,  like  all  his  race  before  him,  dealt  severe  and  telling  blows. 
Not  on  Satan's  kingdom  only,  but  on  all  sectarian  foes. 

But  to-night  his  work  is  ended,  and  the  Dominie  at  last 
Lies  upon  his  dying  pillow,  feels  the  life-tide  ebbing  fast: 

While  beside  his  couch  a  grandchild  seeks  with  loving  hand  to  soothe 
All  the  old  man's  dying  anguish,  all  the  darkening  path  to  Smooth. 

Suddenly  upon  the  maiden  turns  the  hoary  saint  his  eyes, 

From  whose  depths  a  light  mysterious  gleams  like  star  from  polar  skies. 

"Daughter,  I  have  warred  a  warfare  lang  and  tireless  and  severe, 
In  my  preaching  and  my  praying,  'gainst  a'  ither  churches  here. 

"A'  my  days  I've  stoutly  striven  for  the  doctrines  an  Id  and  sweet, 
Fierce  anathemas  I've  uttered  'gainst  the  folk  out-owre  the  street. 

"But  the  street  I  now  am  treading,  d<IUghter,  has  nae  sides  ava,    * 
Far  beyond  my  een  it  reaches,  bounded  by  nor  curb  nor  wa'. 

"O  could  I  my  life  live  over  here  upon  this  barren  shore, 

I'd  preach  purity  o'  doctrine  less,  and  purity  o'  life  far  more!" 

Smiled  the  other  as  she  softly  took  in  hers  the  clay-cold  hand, 
"Are  you  heretical  becoming  as  you  near  the  heavenly  land  ?" 

"Little  matters  it,"  he  whispered,  "names  hae  not  the  olden  sound 
O'  severity  and  terror  that  I've  aften  in  them  found. 

"And  since  I  hae  lain  here  lanely  day  by  day  upon  my  cot, 

Aft  ae  still,  sma'  voice  has  spoken  things  with  holy  sweetness  fraught; 

"Telling  me  that  a'  our  wranglings  over  doctrines  here  below 
Will  for  aye  be  silenced  in  that  Kingdom  whereunto  I  go. 


SAMUEL  VALENTINE  COLE.  779 


''And  as  Love  makes  a'  men  brithers— when  I  enter  in  at  last 

I  shall  find  the  place  far  roomier  than  I  thought  in  times  by-past." 

******  * 

Weaker  grew  his  voice,  and  fainter  fell  the  fait' ring  words  and  slow; 
Sank  the  weary  head  forever,  closed  the  eyes  to  all  below. 

And  as  tearfully  the  maiden  saw  the  light  go  out  at  last, 

Bending  low  she  heard  him  murmur:  "77mw  I  thought  in  time*  />//-/m. 


jjxmitel 

Rev.  Samuel  V.  Cole  was  born  in  Machiasport,  Dec.  29. 1851,  and  in  the  autumn  follow-  • 
ing  his  graduation  at  Bowdoin  College,  (1874)  he  was  appointed  tutor  in  rhetoric  in  that 
institution,  where  he  remained  one  year.  He  then  became  principal  of  the  classical 
department  of  the  High  School  at  Bath,  which  position  he  continued  to  hold  until  the 
summer  of  1877,  when  he  was  appointed  instructor  in  Latin  in  Bowdoin.  He  continued 
in  that  position  until  1881,  in  the  fall  of  which  year  he  accepted  an  appointment  as 
teacher  in  the  Greylock  Classical  Institute,  at  South  Williamstown,  Mass.  He  married, 
in  April,  1880,  Miss  Annie  Talbot,  of  East  Machias.  Since  his  resignation  at  Greylock 
Institute,  Mr.  Cole  has  graduated  at  the  Theological  Seminary,  Andover,  Mass.,  and, 
with  his  wife,  is  now  traveling  tor  a  year  in  Europe.  His  literary  work  has  been  largely 
a  recreation,  though  successfully  pursued,  and  consists  of  translations,  essays,  book- 
reviews  ami  poems.  His  longest  polished  poem  was  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
in  November,  1884,  occupying  four  pages. 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  VIOLET  CROWN. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  with  his  wonderful  skill, 

The  poet  who  once  by  a  sound 
Made  boulder  and  birch-tree  dance  to  his  will, 

And  a  city  arise  from  the  ground. 

One  night,  where  the  haunted  Cephissus  pours 

Its  shrunken  wave  to  the  sea, 
Some  flute-notes,  wafted  along  the  shores, 

Were  the  same  as  Amphion's  to  me. 

For  they  build  thee  again  in  my  quiet  dreams, 

O  city  of  the  Violet  Crown ; 
As  silent  as  rises  the  mist  from  the  streams 

Thy  walls  rose  over  the  town. 

On  the  gleaming  height  where  the  Partheon  lay 

Like  a  beautiful  changeless  cloud 
Stood  the  maiden-goddess  arrayed  for  the  fray, 

Majestic,  and  silent,  and  proud. 

Her  brazen  shield  in  the  sunlight  shone 

Far  out  on  the  trembling  blue, 
As  a  welcoming  star,  as  a  sign  well-known 

To  the  home-returning  crew. 


780  Til  E  POETS  OF  MA  IN  E. 


The  seals  were  broken  on  urn  and  grave, 

And  many  a  vanished  face 
Was  seen  once  more  in  the  living  wave 

Of  the  street  or  the  market-place. 

But  all  the  while  it  was  envious  Death 

Still  masking;  the  vision  of  peace 
Became  as  a  fabric  upheld  by  a  breath, — 

I  feared  that  my  fluter  would  ceaSe. 

Ill-omened  fear!     That  moment  I  found 

The  faces  beginning  to  pass; 
All  faded  as  phantoms  fade  under  ground 

When  the  dawn  breathes  over  the  grass. 

The  dawn  had  risen,  the  broken  spell 

I  could  not  recover  then ; 
Time's  withering  glance  on  thy  temples  fell, 

And  thou  wert  a  ruin  again. 

Nay,  not  all  ruin!     In  air  and  sky, 

In  thy  old  historic  hill, 
A  sense  of  something  that  cannot  die 

There  lingered,  and  lingers  still; 

A'gleam  of  the  light  that  forever  will  be 

On  all  the  nations  afar, 
Like  the  trail  that  falls  over  the  summer  sea 

At  the  set  of  the  Titan  star. 

O  well  to  remember  the  deeds  and  days 

Of  thy  past,  handed  silently  down. 
While  the  sun  on  thy  forehead  of  mountains  lays, 

Fair  city,  the  Violet  Crown. 


"THE  STAFF  AND  THE  TREE." 

This  grew  a  sapling  on  the  mountain  side, 

Nature  had  willed  it  to  become  a  tree; 
I  cut  it  down,  and  in  that  moment's  pride 

I  slew  the  glorious  thing  it  was  to  be. 

It  might  have  risen  to  imperial  height 
And  gladdened  with  its  beauty  all  the  hill, — 

With  bowers  of  green,  and  spaces  sweet  with  light, 
Where  birds  might  build  and  dwell  and  sing  at  will. 

'T  is  now  a  staff.     Yet,  when  the  years  grow  brief, 
And  you  would  share  with  it  your  weight  of  cares — 

When  life  is  putting  on  the  yellow  leaf, 
A  miracle  will  happen  unawares. 


AXNIE  MARIA  LIB  BY.  781 


For  you  will  hear  the  birds  that  never  sang 
Within  its  unborn  branches ;  you  will  see 

The  leaves  that  never  rustled  lightly  hang 

Their  banners  forth — your  staff  will  tower  a  tree; 

And  it  will  be  the  sun  and  wind  and  dew 
Of  other  days  by  which  that  tree  is  made ; 

Then,  if  you  call,  a  friendly  ghost  or  two 
May  come  and  sit  beside  you  in  its  shade ! 


bbn. 


Miss  Annie  M.Libby,  the  daughter  of  a  Free  Baptist  clergyman,  was  born  in  Brunswick, 
Me.,  in  1851,  and  began  to  teacli  school  at  an  early  age,  and  was  also  a  contributor,  both 
in  prose  and  verse,  to  several  publications,  receiving  five  dollars  for  a  short  story,  when 
fifteen  years  old.  Jn  1882  she  accepted  a  position  on  the  staff  of  the  Lewis!  on  Journal, 
and  later  went  to  Europe,  and  wrote  letters  for  the  Lewiston  Journal  and  the  Journal 
of  Education,  becoming,  on  her  return,  editorially  connected  with  the  latter  paper. 
Miss  Libby's  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  the  Portland  and  Boston 
Transcripts,  the  Illustrated  Christian  Weekly,  and  various  other  publications.  She  is 
also  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Chautauqiian. 

HIDDEN  FORCES. 
She  watched  the  winding  brook  steal  from  the  shade 

Of  sombre  pines  where  it  had  loitered  long, 
And,  leaving  all  its  dusky  ambuscade, 

Run  down  the  sunny  slope  with  laugh  and  song. 

"  O  happy  brook,"  she  sighed,  "dost  not  regret 

Within  that  gloomy  copse  thy  lingering?" 
The  brook  laughed  low:  "  In  that  dark  wood  are  set," 

It  said,  "the  springs  that  give  me  strength  to  sing." 

POVERTY-GRASS. 

Grown  on  that  sterile  cliff  for  centuries, 
Wind-swept  by  chilling  blasts  from  ocean  wave, 
Hast  thou  thine  aspirations,  too,  dost  crave 
Like  human  hearts,  impossibilities  ? 
Dost  tremble  at  the  dull  roar  of  the  seas 
Chanting  death-songs  above  the  drowned  man's  grave? 
Dost  vainly  sigh  for  fields  where  glad  brooks  lave 
The  violet's  feet  and  murmur  melodies 
Unto  the  nesting  birds,  —  where  wild  vines  drift 
Down  fragrant  lanes  o'erhung  with  golden  fruits,— 
Where  summer's  happy  roses  bud  and  blow? 
O  pallid  weed,  close  clasped  in  granite  rift, 
The  strength  and  sweetness  hidden  at  thy  root, 
The  lush  green  meadow-grasses  never  know. 

61* 


782  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Franklin  Stanwood,  son  of  Capt.  Gideon  L.  and  Elizabeth  Stan  wood,  was  born  in  Port 
land,  March  16,  1852.  His  father  was  master  of  a  ship  in  the  West  Indies  and  European 
trades,  and  the  first  few  years  of  his  life  were  spent  on  the  sea.  At  the  age  of  eight  he 
entered  the  schools  of  Portland.  In  1863,  his  father  retiring  from  the  sea  after  follow 
ing  it  for  forty- three  years,  removed  to  Gorham;  in  1864  Franklin  entered  Gorham  Acade 
my.  Later,  he  made  several  voyages  to  European  ports,  but  in  1877  he  opened  a  studio 
in  Portland  as  a  marine  artist,  and  his  pictures  are  widely  known.  His  first  published 
poem  was  in  the  Portland  Presn,  in  1877.  Among  other  papers  he  has  contributed  largely 
to  the  Portland  Transcript  over  the  pen-name  of  "  Verd." 

DANDELIONS. 

Dandelions— Dandelions!     I  used  to  pass  you  by; 
Beneath  my  feet  your  yellow  stars  I  crushed  without  a  sigh; 
I  used  to  gaze  upon  your  blooms  with  but  a  careless  eye, 
And  if  of  you  I  thought  at  all,  knew  not  the  reason  why. 

Dandelions— Dandelions!  (I'll  tell  to  only  you,) 

As  you  were  loved  by  one  I  loved,  I  came  to  love  you,  too. 

I  've  some  of  you  she  plucked  for  me,  (all  diamonded  with  dew) 

They've  withered  now,  but  sacred  kept,  tied  with  a  ribbon  blue. 

Dandelions — Dandelions!  how  fresh  you  all  appear! 
While  those  I've  kept  so  long— .so  long — are  withered  now  and  sere; 
And  she,  who  placed  them  in  my  hand  and  giving  made  them  dear, 
Is  sleeping  where  the  dandelions  love  to  blossom  near. 

Dandelions— Dandelions !  we  meet  with  each  new  year, 

In  winter's  gloom  I  hail  with  joy  your  resurrection  near; 

And  when  on  sunny  slopes  I  see  your  yellow  stars  appear, 

They  seem,  somehow,  the  stars  of  hope  that  I  shall  meet  my  dear. 

A  FANCY. 

With  kisses  soft  the  summer  sea 

Caressed  a  silver  strand— 
With  arms  of  white  he  tenderly 

Embraced  the  willing  land — 
Willing,  yet  half  resistingly, 

She  gave  the  sea  her  hand. 

But  true  love's  course,  says  proverb  old, 

Runs  never  smooth,  serene ; 
The  rocks,  who  thought  the  sea  too  bold, 

Thought  they  would  intervene. 
And  hold  in  check  this  warrior  old 

Who  fain  would  woo  their  queen. 

"Ha!  ha!"  the  mighty  ocean  salt-h,  • 
44 So  you  would  us  divide!"- 


HELEN  L.   W.   WORSTER.  783 


Then,  like  a  tempest,  came  his  breath- 
Uprose  his  arm,  the  tide; 

The  rocks  were  all  flung  low,  in  death, 
He  clasped  the  land— his  bride. 


Mrs.  Helen  L.  W.  Worster,  the  eldest  of  a  family  of  four— children  of  Chester  Weld 
and  Lucy  J.  Clement— was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  August,  1852,  but  has  spent  her  whole 
life  in  the  little  town  of  Kenduskeag,  Me.  Here  began  and  ended  her  school  days. 
After  some  years  of  school  teaching,  at  the  aze  of  twenty-one,  she  was  married  to  Geo. 
W.  Worster,  and  began  a  busy  life,  in  which  poetry  has  been  an  incidental  pleasure 
rather  than  a  pursuit.  She  has  been  quite  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Portland  Tran 
script. 


THE  FIRE  OF' HOME. 
I  hear  them  tell  of  far-off  climes, 

And  treasures  grand  they  hold— 
Of  minster  walls  where  stained  light  falls 

On  canvas,  rare  and  old. 
My  hands  fall  down,  my  breath  comes. fast, — 

But  ah,  how  can  I  roam  ? 
My  task  I  know;  to  spin  and  sew, 

And  light  the  fire  of  home. 

Sometimes  I  hear  of  noble  deeds, 

Of  words  that  move  mankind; 
Of  willing  hands  that  to  other  lands 

Bring  light  to  the  poor  and  blind. 
I  dare  not  preach,  I  cannot  write,    ^ 

I  fear  to  cross  the  foam ; 
Who,  if  I  go,  will  spin  and  sew 

And  light  the  fire  of  home  ? 

My  husband  comes,  as  the  shadows  fall, 

From  the  fields  with  my  girl  andjboy; 
His  loving  kiss  brings  with  it  bliss 

That  hath  no  base  alloy. 
From  the  new  plowed  meadows,  fresh  and  brown, 

I  catch  the  scent  of  the  loam ; 
"Heart,  do  not  fret,  'tis  something  yet 

To  light  the  fire  of  home." 


FOR  OLD  TIME'S  SAKE. 
This  kiss  is  for  the  old  time's  sake, 
The  sad  old  time, 


784  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


When  the  wolf  howled  often  at  the  door, 
We  were  so  young,  we  were  so  poor 
In  the  old  time. 

This,  too,  is  for  the  old  time's  sake, 

The  sweet  old  time. 

Howe'er  the  careless  world  might  sneer. 
The  flame  within  our  hearts  made  cheer 

In  the  old  time. 

O  comrade  of  the  olden  time, 

O  truest  heart ! 

When  mingled  memories  awake, 
One  lingering  kiss  is  for  the  sake 

Of  the  old  time. 


Cathie  Lyford  Jewett,  born  in  Augusta,  1852.  Received  her  early  educationt  here,  and 
occupied  position  as  teacher  in  Mt.  Vernon  School  at  15  years  of  age.  Afterward  attended 
Normal  School  at  Farmington,  and  since  then  has  taught  almost  constantly.  In  this  way 
writing  has  necessarily  been  made  a  recreation,  and  the  hours  devoted  to  her  pen  have 
been  among  the  happiest  of  her  life.  Her  poetic  contributions  have  appeared  in  many 
periodicals  of  the  day,  and  in  the  line  of  story-writing  she  has  attained  considerable  sue- 


IN  SCHOOL. 

There  is  a  school  with  a  teacher  stern, 
With  lessons  long  and  hard  to  learn. 

A  school  that  is  found  in  every  clime ; 
And  that  keeps  in  session  all  the  time. 

Its  open  doors  are  free  to  all, 

The  black  and  white,  the  great  and  small. 

And  all  must  go,  the  bad  and  good, 
For  none  could  shirk  it,  if  they  would. 

And  all  must  study  with  weary  pain, 
Old,  old  lessons  "over  again. 

Lessons  of  sorrow,  of  loss  and  care, 
Of  hopeless  waiting  and  despair. 

And  forever  we  cannot  choose  but  look, 
Till  death  shall  close  life's  lesson-book. 

And  we  see  at  last  with  all  made  plain, 
That  our  weary  tasks  were  not  in  vain. 

Doubtless  we  give  some  pitying  thought 

To  those  who  stand  with  the  strife  unfought. 


NATHAN  HASKELL  DOLE.  785 

To  those  who  lift  with  present  pain, 
Our  old,  old  crosses  over  again. 

Who  strive  as  we  strove,  for  gold  and  pelf, 
Who  learn  as  we  learned,  each  one  for  himself. 

For  the  school  shall  be  taught  in  the  long  years  hence, 
By  the  same  old  dame,  Experience. 


AN  OLD  PICTURE. 

The  sweetest  picture  that  memory  brings, 
The  dearest  of  all  departed  things, 
Is  the  old  brown  house,  with  its  open  door, 
Its  wide-flung  windows,  and  spotless  floor. 

Tall  hollyhocks  by  the  foot-paths  grow, 
And  sweet  old-fashioned  balls  of  snow, 
That  tell  of  a  beauty-loving  heart, 
Unlearned  in  a  single  rule  of  art. 

I  can  see  again  the  tansy-bed, 
And  the  apples  ripening  overhead, 
The  mullein-stalks  with  crowns  of  gold, 
And  the  blossoming  asters  manifold. 

I  can  hear  again  the  patient  tread 
Of  the  gentle  mother  long  since  dead, 
I  can  feel  her  hand  upon  my  brow, 
Ah!   the  earth  has  no  such  healing  novr. 

For  the  race  of  women  has  passed  away 
That  blessed  the  land  in  its  early  day, 
And  quaint  old  houses,  low  and  brown, 
Are  found  unhealthy,  and  all  torn  down. 

The  world  moves  on;  its  progress  brings 
Grand  reforms,  undreamed-of  things; 
But  nothing  modern  can  fill  the  place 
Of  the  dear  old  home  and  mother's  face. 


joh. 

Nathan  H.  Dole,  whose  gifted  mother,  Mrs.  Caroline  F.  Dole,  is  elsewhere  represented 
in  tins  volume,  was  born  in  Chelsea.  Mass.,  Aug.  31.  1852.  His  boyhood,  after  the  death 
of  his  father,  which  occurred  in  1*55,  was  spent  in  Korridgewock,  Me.  Nathan  gradu 
ated  from  Harvard  College  in  J874,  is  now  a  resident  of  Boston,  and  very  successfully 
engaged  in  literary  pursuits. 


786  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


BEETHOVEN. 

Where  art  thou  now,  O  Master,  where  art  thou  ? 
Is  thy  soul  busied  with  the  harmonies, 
Which  God  hides  in  those  rolling  stars  of  his, 

Silent  to  us,  to  thee  apparent  now  ? 

Where  art  thou  now,  O  Master,  where  art  thou  ? 
The  world  has  missed  thee  long,  and  none  there 
To  be,  like  thee,  the  Priest  of  mysteries, 

And  wear  the  diadem  upon  the  brow. 

And  yet  the  world  is  full  of  thee.     Thy  name 

Is  synonym  of  a  highest  in  thine  art, 
And  brighter  through  the  coming  years  shall  shine. 
Would  I  might  add  a  little  wreath  of  mine- 
Alas  !  how  small  a  part— how  small  a  part 
'  To  place  within  the  temple  of  thy  fame. 

ON  A  PICTUEE  OF  SUNSET  IN  THE  ADIEONDACKS. 
On  mountain  summits  and  on  clouds  is  glowing 
The  glory  of  the  sunset;  in  the  valley 
The  waveless  waters  of  the  river  dally, 
And  shadows  darken  and  more  deep  are  growing. 

Hushed  are  the  winds;  the  tall  elms  bending 
Above  the  glassy  stream  are  motionless, 
As  if  entranced  at  their  own  loveliness, 

With  dreamy  colors  in  the  cool  depths  blending. 

There  is  no  sound;  the  robins  ceased  their  song, 
E'en  as  the  sunset  faded  from  the  sky, 

Music  and  joyousness  to  day  belong— 

'Tis  fitting  that  in  silence  day  should  die. 

SONG. 

The  air  is  stirred  by  winnowing  wings, 
And  every  bird  exulting  sings ; 
Eobin  and  jay  with  swelling  throats 
Bring  in  the  day  with  welcome  notes. 

Upon  the  sky  soft  cloudlets  sleep, 
And  swallows  fly  from  deep  to  deep ; 
The  wild  geese  are  in  dizzy  heights, 
And  prophesy  the  spring's  delights. 

The  grass  grows  green  on  field  and  hillr 
And  buds  are  seen  with  life  to  thrill; 
When  everything  is  full  of  cheer, 
I,  too,  must  sing,  though  no  one  hear. 


FRANKLIN  FOLSOM  PHILLIPS.  787 


franklin  ^gohom  jjhitliys. 

Franklin  F.  Phillips  was  born  in  Searsmont,  Me.,  Dec.  21,  1852,  and  lived  at  South 
Mpntville,  from  1856  to  1871,  when  he  removed  to  Lewiston  where  he  graduated  from  the 
Nichols  Latin  School  in  1873,  and  from  Bates  College,  with  high  honors,  in  1877.  For 


at 

Somerville,  Mass.  He  was  commissioned  State  Assayer  of  Maine  in  1880,  and  served 
three  years.  Though  the  foundation  of  his  fortune  has  been  laid  in  scientific  pursuit 
poetry  is  nobly  asserting  itself  in  his  leisure,  and  much  may  be  expected  from  his  grace- 
ful  muse  in  the  future. 


THE  GRANITE  ISLES. 

Grouped  on 'the  heaving  bosom  of  the  tide, 
Whero  artless  lays  the  fluvial  waters  sing, 

To  lull  the] weary  surf  that  inlets  hide, 
And  o'er  the  voiceful  flood  the  mountains  fling 

The  sky's  dark  bodes,  or  tokens  of  its  smiles, 

Appear,  in  modest  guise,  the  granite  isles, 

Low  evergreens,  that  sterile  lands  deplore— 
Meet  growth  from  soil  that  winter's  rage  infest s 

Mantle  the  silex  of  the  drifty  shore, 
Where  strand  in  pebbly  shoals  the  sinking  crests 

Of  billows  tired  of  the  sculptor's  art 

On  stone  whose  rugged  form  is  slow  to  part. 

The  cliffs,  grim  warriors  mailed  in  iron-gray, 

Resist  the  furious  onsets  of  the  sea; 
Clear  blazoned  on  their  shields,  that  glance  the  spray, 

Are  seen  the  types  of  time's  immensity. 
Such  might  in  earth's  primordial  ranks  arose, 
And  valor  such  the  glacial  fields  ne'er  froze! 

No  man  hath  valid  title  to  a  rood 

Of  this  dull  glebe,  lingering  'twixt  storm  and  main, 
On  which,  when  azure  gates  ope  o'er  the  flood, 

The  sun  and  stars  their  showers  of  beauty  rain ; 
Long  hath  Atlantis,  in  his  watery  grave, 
Held  it  in  mortmain  'gainst  the  encroaching  wave. 

The  dweller  in  the  clime  where  sun  and  air 
Make  need  of  bowery  nooks  and  breezy  calls, 

The  white  yEolian  harps,  attuned  most  rare, 
The  languid  winds  light  trill,  or  silence  thralls, 

Finds  on  these  isles,  in  sound  of  ocean's  song, 
The  blood  to  leap  anew  in  currents  strong. 


788 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


SNOW 

With  crystal  eyes 
Oped  in  the  skies, 
With  wings  of  sparry  spangles, 
In  ghostly  plight, 
A  habit  light, 

That  loosely  round  me  dangles, 
I  fill  the  air 
With  visions  rare, 
And  blanch  the  sombre  meadows ; 
My  woolly  feet 
The  cold  earth  meet 
As  noiselessly  as  shadows. 
From  frith  and  bay 
And  ocean's  way 
I  climbed  the  sunbeams  golden. 
O'er  mountain  walls, 
In  castle  halls, 
By  dewy  hands  was  holden. 
A  pompous  king 
B  ule  menials  bring 
Me  rob.)*  of  downy  feather, 
Then  called  me  snow, 
And  let  me  go 

To  grace  the  winter  weather. 
O'er  field  and  down 
And  road  and  town 
I  toy  and  whirl  and  flutter; 
Fair  cheeks  I  kiss 
Of  lad  and  miss, 
But  praises  never  utter. 

The  fen's  meek  crest, 
The  marsh-grass  nest, 
By  water-fowl  forsaken, 
I  cover  o'er 
With  wrappings  hoar, 
Till  spring  their  life  shall  waken. 


(lim 


-FALL. 

Caressing  now 
The  mount's  stern  brow, 
I  court  the  spectral  stillness ; 
From  one  lone  bird 
A  note  is  heard 
To  trill  the  air  in  shrillness. 

Through  woods  I  wend, 
The  branches  bend, 
I  make  an  arch  and  ceiling; 
The  pine's  low  boughs 
Whisper  their  vows 
Mid  incense  heavenward  stealing. 
I  nestle  round 
The  grassy  mound, 
The  sear  blades  stoop  and  shiver, 
And  sadly  sigh 
That  life's  fond  tie 
Is  sundered  by  its  Giver. 
From  turret  gray, 
At  break  of  day, 
The  startled  pigeon's  cooing, 
And  sparrow's  prate 
Unto  his  mate 
Proclaim  ray  magic  doing. 
As  night-sliacles  fall, 
My  silent  call 
Is  made  at  every  dwelling, 
The  plenty-blessed, 
The  want-oppressed, 
Alike  my  steps  repelling. 
The  cliff's  dun  verge 
My  feet  would  urge, 
To  meet  the  bounding  billows; 
I  go  to  sleep, 
Within  the  deep, 
On  soft  and  foam- white  pillows. 


This  lady  was  born  in  Westbrook,  now  Deering,  in  1855,  and  has  spent  most  of  her  life 
in  the  school-room,  teaching  three  years  in  Battle  Creek  College,  Mich  ,  and  the  rest  of 
the  lime  in  the  public  schools  of  this  State.  She  has  written  many  sketches  and  educa 
tional  articles,  songs  and  hymus  for  musical  composers,  some  of  which  have  become 
quite  popular  in  the  West.  A  volume  of  her  poems  under  the  title  "  Still  Waters"  has 
been  printed,  and  she  also  has  now  in  press  an  "  Elementary  Geography,"  on  a  new  and 
improved  plan. 


ELIZA  H.MORTON.  789 


IN   THE  SUNLIGHT. 

I  sit  and  muse  in  the  sunlight, 
And  dream  a  dream  of  the  past: 

The  rush  of  a  flood  of  music, 
The  sweep  of  a  chilling  blast. 

The  touch  of  a  hand  now  pulseless, 
The  thought  of  a  hope  now  dead, 

The  duties  and  deeds  neglected, 
The  words  of  love  unsaid. 

The  days  half-spent  in  the  shadow 
When  the  soul  and  the  song  were  sad, 

When  the  hours  of  golden  beauty, 
When  the  heart  and  voice  were  glad. 

I  have  lived  and  learned  this  lesson 
That  the  good  which  we  bestow 

To  the  world  in  its  gloomy  darkness 
Is  the  sweetest  joy  below. 

And  so  I  sit  in  the  sunlight 
And  pray  that  grace  may  shine 

From  the  throne  of  a  mighty  Father, 
And  soften  this  heart  of  mine. 

And  thus  from  his  loving  presence 
I  gather  the  strength  I  need, 

To  go  forth  in  the  field  of  his  promise 
And  scatter  life's  golden  seed. 


LOST  LILIES. 

A  merry  child  stood  by  the  side 
Of  waters  sparkling,  blue  and  wide ; 
Within  his  hand  were  lilies  white, 
Within  his  heart  was  sunshine  bright. 

He  laid  the  flowers  on  the  sand, 
And  watched  the  tide  creep  up  the  strand, 
When  lo!    the  waves,  with  solemn  roar, 
Washed  all  his  treasures  from  the  shore. 

With  quivering  lip  and  tearful  eye 
He  viewed  the  lilies  floating  by, 
And  cried:  "O  hungry,  cruel  sea, 
My  blossoms  sweet  give  back  to  me!" 


790  7 HE  POE TS  OF  MA  IN E 


But  Ocean  murmured:  "  Go  thy  way, 
There  cometh  soon  a  brighter  day, 
Not  now,  but  then;  not  here,  but  there, 
Shall  be  the  lilies  ever  fair/' 

We  are  all  wandering  on  the  shore 
Of  God's  great  sea — for  evermore, 
And  lilies  white  we  oft  behold, 
And  in  our  arms  of  love  enfold. 

But  happiness  is  not  for  aye, 
And  lilies  may  be  lost  some  day; 
For  waves  of  life  oft  tear  apart 
Full  many  a  clinging,  loving  heart; 

But  lilies  pure  will  gathered  be 

In  God's  own  time — eternity. 

Not  now,  but  then;  not  here,  but  there, 

Forever  thine  the  lilies  fair. 


Born  in  Calais,  Me.,  April  14,  1839;  early  education  at  Eastport,  Saccarappa,  and  Gor- 
hain  Male  Academy;  graduated  at  Harvard,  18GO;  studied  civil  engineering  and  library 
science:  taught  in  Boston.  Later,  Civil  Engineer  at  Newbern,  N.  C.,  where,  at  close  of 
the  war,  he  went  into  business,  and  was  elected  to  various  civil  offices.  Was  afterwards 
connected  with  the  book-trade  in  Boston  for  seven  years,  and  employed  in  literary, 
library  and  editorial  work.  On  editorial  staff  Watchman,  and,  later,  on  staff  of  Zion's 
Herald;  correspondent  American  llookneUer,  New  York;  wrote  "Waltham,  Past  and 
Present,"  "  Weston,"  for  "  Drake's  History  Middlesex  County;  "  has  given  special  atten 
tion  to  the  study  of  library  economy.  Was  Librarian  at  Gorham  Academy,  and  now  in 
the  Astor  Library,  New  York,  and  is  at  work  on  the  fourth  and  last  volume  of  the 
Library  Catalogue.  Js  Assistant  Secretary  of  the  American  Library  Association,  and 
secretary  of  the  New  York  Library  Club.  Has  written  fine  poems,  but  never  published 
a  collection. 


LAKE  GEORGE. 
Horicon,  fair  lake  of  the  silvery  waters, 

Whose  clear  depths  the  mountain-top  shadows  aye  kiss, 
As  in  their  strong  arms  the  couched  Titans  enfold  thee, 

Sweet  Naiad  of  the  wilderness,  slumbering  in  bliss. 

How  strange  on  our  ears  fall  the  legend  and  story 
Of  war's  glittering  pageants,  thy  bosom  that  pressed 

In  the  strife  'twixt  the  cross  and  the  lily,  when  startled 
The  war-whoop  thy  dense  bosky  shores  from  their  rest. 

The  peace-bringing  heralds  of  cross  and  of  missal 
Well  named  thee  the  "  Lake  of  the  Sacrament"  pure, 

For  the  light  of  thy  loveliness  memory's  altar 
Shall  hallow  when  legends  no  longer  allure. 


GEORGE  H.  STOCK  BRIDGE.  791 

Enchanted  we  float  past  thy  green-tufted  islands, 
In  thy  "Paradise  Bay"— peerless  haven  of  rest,— 

'Neath  thy  dark  heetling  crags,  o'er  whose  rose-haloed  summits 
Chaste  Dian  her  silver  how  draws  in  the  west. 

When  round  us  the  shadows  of  eve  softly  gather, 
How  quickens  our  sense  of  thine  exquisite  peace; 

From  the  din  of  the  mart,  and  from  life's  restless  turmoil, 
The  pilgrim  to  thee  finds  a  blissful  surcease. 

OUR  BABY. 

Sweet  little  hud  of  the  Spring-time, 

With  dimpled  checks,  rosy  and  fail- 
Flashes  like  beams  of  the  sunlight 

The  gold  of  her  bright,  curly  hair. 

Her  lips  are  red  as  the  cherries, 

Her  chubby  hands  seize  with  delight, 
While  her  blue  eyes  snap,  and  sparkle 

Like  the  gems  in  the  robe-  of  night. 


(jjjeonje  jj.  jjfochbrictge. 

aP'fl'  S,tockb,ri<lge  was  born  in  Mexico,  Me..  Dec.  28,  1852,  son  of  John  C.  and  Bernice 
Stockbridge.  Parents  removed  to  Lewiston  in  18G2.  He  fitted  for  college  there,  and 
graduated  in  1872  at  Bates.  Taught  four  years  after  graduation,  and  then  spent  three 
years  at  Leipzig  University,  studying  language  and  history.  Returning,  did  private 
tutoring  at  Amherst,  Mass.,  for  a  year,  and  was  then  chosen  Assistant  Professor  of  Latin 
at  Johns  Hopkins  University.  Was  obliged  by  ill-health  to  give  up  teaching.  In  1881 
bureau  U"ited  ^^  ^^  °ffi°e  aS  examiner'  and  is  n*w  practising. before  that 

AN  UNTIMELY  RECOLLECTION. 

What  faithless  lover  of  them  all 

Is  worth  that  Celia's  tears  should  fall  ? 

Anon. 
Merrier  dance  was  never  yet; 

Never  yet  was  merrier  maiden; 
Laughter  touched  with  no  regret ; 
Lip  and  eye  with  laughter  laden. 

Suddenly  she  left  her  place, 

Past  them  all  her  steps  betaking; 
In  her  palms  she  hid  her  face, 

Sobbed  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 

Spake  the  heroes  standing  near: 

"She's  a  woman,  what's  the  wonder? 

Rain,  when  all  the  sky  is  clear; 
Under  blazing  sun,  the  thunder." 


792  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Yet  each  pitying  maiden  knew; 

Each  on  each  a  glance  bestowing; 
O  that  wise  men  are  so  few ! 

Ah,  that  maids  should  be  so  knowing! 

One,  a  stranger,  whispered  low: 
"  Some,  riot  all,  I  can  discover." 

Answered  one :  "A  year  ago 

Fell  this  quarrel  with  her  lover." 


jjzadore 


Isadore  Eliza  Parker  was  born  in  Parsonsfield,  York  County,  Me.,  Sept.  24,  1853.  Edu 
cated  at  the  common  schools  and  at  Parsonsrield  and  Limerick  (Me.)  Academies.  For 
several  years  after  leaving  school  engaged  in  teaching.  Married,  Sept.  15,  1872,  David  M. 
Merrill,  of  Parsonsfield.  Removed  irom  her  native  town  in  1876  to  Charlestown,  Mass., 
where  she  has  since  resided.  With  the  exception  of  two  or  three  prose  sketches,  her 
first  'advent  before  the  public  was  in  1885,  when  "The  Song  of  the  Housekeeper,"  (par- 
ody),appeared  in  the  Portland  Transcript.  Since  then  she  has  devoted  considerable 
time  to  "  verse-making;"  her  best  work  appearing  in  the  Transcript. 

MY  FIRST  LOYE. 
Folks  called  it  a  boy's  passing  fancy,  — 

And  yet  I  recall  with  a  thrill, 
That  first  time  I  walked  home  with  Nancy 

Through  the  logging-road  round  by  the  mill. 

'Twas  spelling-school  night  one  December, 

And  when  the  sharp  contest  was  o'er, 
I  waited  for  her,  I  remember, 

Outside,  by  the  old  schoolhouse  door. 

Oh,  how  my  poor  heart  thumped  and  choked  me! 

For  there  at  my  left  stood  Dick  Pearl, 
A  fellow  who  always  provoked  me,  — 

(O  yes!  we  both  loved  the  same  girl.) 

My  rival  !  shall  he  seize  the  treasure  ? 

The  blood  in  my  veins  throbbed  and  burned. 
My  boots  beat  irregular  measure,  — 

I  tried  to  seem  cool—  unconcerned. 

At  last,  they  flocked  out  of  the  entry! 

Regardless  of  badinage  sly; 
I  boldly  stepped  forth  like  a  sentry 

To  challenge  one  small  passer-by. 

She  blushed—  took  my  arm—  O  wild  rapture! 

Away  fled  cold  doubt  and  alarm! 
Triumphant,  I  bore  home  my  capture 

While  over  the  earth  fell  a  charm. 


CHAELES  EDWARD  BANKS.  793 


Folks  called  it  a  boy's  passing  fancy, 

Yet — somehow — T  cannot  forget 
That  first  time  I  walked  home  with  Xancy 

By  the  mill  where  the  logging-roads  met. 
To  have  her  again  here  beside  me 

And  feel  that  wild,  passionate  thrill, 
Though  all  else  beside  were  denied  me, 

I'd  count  this  life  dear  to  me  still. 


(jjdward  jjanks. 


Charles  Edward  Banks  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  July  6,  1854,  the  eldest  son  of 
Edward  Prince  and  Ellen  (Soule)  Banks.  He  is  a  grandson  of  Charles  Soule,  a  grand- 
nephew  of  John  B.  L.  Soule,  a  cousin  of  Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith,  Cyrus  and  Mary  Bartol, 
whose  writings  appear  in  the  preceding  pages  of  this  work.  He  was  educated  in  the  pub 
lic  schools  of  the  city,  and  «-as  graduated  in  1877  from  the  High  School,  having  fitted 
himself  for  college  by  following  the  classical  course  of  instruction.  He  began  the  study 
of  medicine  at  the  Portland  School  for  Medical  Instruction  in  1874,  and  received  the 
degree  of  AT.  D.  in  1877  from  the  Dartmouth  Medical  College.  In  1880  he  was  appointed 
Assistant  Surgeon  in  the  United  States  .Marine  Hospital  Service,  and  has  been  sta 
tioned  at  San  Francisco,  Washington  and  Boston  in  the  line  of  his  duties.  He  has  lately 
(1887)  been  detailed  as  surgeon  in  charge  of  the  U  S.  Marine  Hospital  in  his  native  city. 
He  married  in  1880  Florence  Margaret,  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  N.  W.  T.  Root,  Rector 
of  St.  Paul's,  Portland,  a  native  of  New  Haven,  Conn.  The  lines  below  were  written  ten 
years  ago  since  which  time  the  Doctor  has  not  cultivated  his  muse. 

THE  SKIPPER'S  FAITH. 
'T  was  labor  hard  to  deeply  sow 

The  seeds  of  Faith  in  human  souls, 
When  Parson   Moody,  years  ago, 

Preached  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 
He  had  to  deal  with  boatmen  bluff, 

With  natures  unrefined, 
And  talk  with  them  in  language  rough 

To  suit  their  mould  of  mind. 
With  metaphoric  masquerade 

Of  figures  oft  uncouth, 
The  parson  ever  preached  and  prayed 

About  the  sacred  truth. 
He  told  them  how  to  reef  their  sin 

And  steer  by  Satan's  fort, 
And  gave  them  courses  safe  to  spin 

Their  craft  to  heaven's  port! 
He  often  preached  in  varied  form 

From  David's  splendid  Psalm 
To  Him  who  raises  up  the  storm 

And  makes  the  tempest  calm. 
Those  hardy  men  he  thought  were  awed 

Whene'er  he  read  the  verse, 
"They  cry  in  trouble  to  the  Lord, 

And  all  their  woes  disperse!  ' 

52 


794  THE  POETS  OF  MA1XE. 


He  would  repeat  with  rev'rent  lips 

In  tones  of  deep  appeal, 
"  They  that  go  down  to  sea  in  ships 

Like  drunken  men  shall  reel!" 
And  try  to  picture  Him  who  saves 

The  sailor  in  distress — 
The  God  who  rules  the  angry  waves 

And  sees  their  helplessness. 

Such  was  the  sermon  and  the  text 

He  preached  one  Sabbath  day; 
But  oh !  the  news,  on  Sunday  next, 

Which  came  from  Ipswich  Bay! 
It  told  of  "  Shoalers"  wrecked  and  lost 

Upon  that  reef-ribbed  shore, 
And  fishers'  shallops,  tempest-tossed, 

That  sailed  the  sea  no  more ! 

Then  Parson  Moody  seized  the  theme 

To  make  his  sermon  burn, 
And  humbly  said,  "  The  Lord  Supreme 

Doth  smite  us  stem  and  stern! 
Ahoy,  my  men,  what  would  ye  do 

If  pressed  as  hard  as  they, 
The  wind  no'theast,  your  sails  askew 

Two  points  off  Ipswich  Bay  ? 

J'Come,  give  your  course— your  mains'l  gone, 

The  crew  in  dumb  despair- 
Three  stormy  watches  'fore  the  dawn — 

Say,  what  would  be  your  prayer  ?' ' 
Then  spake  a  skipper,  bluff  and  glib, 

Well  tried  in  gale  and  storm: 
•"  I'd  h'ist  'er  fores'l,  reef  'erjib, 

An'  p'int  'er  dead  for  Squam!" 


hint      lla 


Miss  Clara  E.  Wales  was  born  in  Hiram,  Me.,  July  19,  18"4,  and  died  in  Porter,  Me., 
Aug.  4,  1887.  Her  parents  were  estimable  persons,  and  gave  Clara  such  educational  priv 
ileges  as  their  circumstances  would  permit.  A  heart  disease,  contracted  by  fright  and 
over  exertion  in  her  childhood,  made  her  an  invalid  all  her  life,  and  she  rarely  left  home. 
Thus  her  pure  and  gentle  spirit  was  daily  chastened  and  fitted  for  heaven.  She  was  a 
graceful  and  able  writer,  and  some  of  her  sweet  effusions  are  cherished  in  many  a  Maine 
home. 


TWENTY-TWO. 
At  twenty-two  life  bright  and  fair 

Doth  stretch  unto  far  heights  sublime, 


IDA  SUMNER  VOSE  WOOD  BURY.  795 


And  Hope's  glad  song  floats  on  the  air 

Gilding  with  joy  the  present  time. 
At  twenty- two  life  's  young  and  new, 
And  all  things  take  a  roseate  hue. 

'T  is  yet  life's  morn  at  twenty-two ; 

The  dew  is  on  the  wayside  grass — 
And  with  strong  hands  to  dare  and  do 

We  gather  gladness  as  we  pass. 
At  twenty-two  our  skies  are  blue, 
And  earth  is  fair,  and  friends  are  true. 

We  work  and  wait  for  grander  things; 

Nor  doubt  at  all,  with  foolish  fears, 
But  that  the  song  that  young  life  sings 

Will  come  to  pass  in^future  years. 
At  twenty-two  we  pluck  no  rue, 
But  gather  roses  starred  with  dew. 


JHunmer  Wose 


Ida  Sumner  Vose,  daughter  of  Peter  E.  and  Lydia  (Kilby)  Vose,  was  born  in  Dennys- 
ville,  Me.,  Dec.  14,  1854.  Upon  graduating  from  the  High  School,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
she  engaged  in  teaching,  in  which  occupation  she  continued  for  four  years.  On  June  2, 
1876,  she  married  Clinton  A.  Woodbury,  at  that  time  editor  of  the  Somerset  Reporter. 
For  two  or  three  years  she  assisted  in  editing  the  literary  columns  of  that  paper,  and 
since  then  has  occasionally  contributed  to  different  journals.  Most  of  her  poems  are  of 
a  religious  character,  though  she  has  frequently  written  for  anniveisaries  and  other  spe 
cial  occasions.  Mrs.  Woodbury  has  for  several  years  resided  at  Woodfords,  near  Port- 
and. 


THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Up  to  the  hills,  whose  lofty  cloud-capped  summits 
Are  tinged  with  glory  by  the  setting  sun, 

I  lift  my  eyes  for  strength,  so  sorely  needed, 
Strength  for  the  battle  that  must  now  be  won. 

The  shades  of  evening  settle  o'er  the  valley, 
All  nature  sinks  into  the  calm  of  night, 

But  from  the  heights,  where  verdure  turns  to  purple, 
Come  gleams  of  splendor,  rays  of  dazzling  light. 

When  fevered  is  the  brain  with  restless  striving, 
When  heavy  is  the  heart  by  grief  oppressed, 

We  turn  our  wistful  gaze  up  to  the  mountains 
Seeking  from  them  our  longed-for  help  and  rest. 

For  ofttimes  in  life's  pathway  come  dark  valleys 
That  try  our  courage,  but  must  yet  be  trod ; 

The  earth  is  full  of  shadows  and  deep  places,— 
The  vales  must  come,  how  else  the  mounts  of   God  ? 


7<*>  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


O  mountain  dark!  with  glory-crowned  summit, 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  eyes  and  faith  above 

On  Him  who  made  thee,  and  the  light  that  gilds  thee, 
On  Him  whose  tender  care  and  watchful  love 

Preserve  us  in  our  coining  and  our  going, 
Who  is  our  refuge  and  our  strength,  who  keeps 

Our  feet  from  being  moved;  He  is  our  helper; 
The  God  of  Israel  slumbers  not  nor  sleeps. 

O  mountains !  with  your  bases  mid  the  thickets, 
But  with  your  tops  far-reaching  to  the  sky, 

Teach  me  that  though  the  snares  and  toils  surround  me 
To  ever  keep  my  heart  and  hopes  on  high : 

Teach  me,  though  dark  the  way  may  be  and  dreary, 

To  never  falter,  nor  in  doubt  despond, 
Nor  downward  look  into  the  deep'ning  shadows, 

But  always  upward,  to  the  light  beyond. 


miiis 


This  author  was  born  at  Kittery  Point,  Me.,  July  9,  1855;  graduated  at  Harvard,  class 
•f  1878,  and  at  Boston  University  Law  School,  1881.  He  has  practiced  law  since  that 
year,  and  has  for  some  time  been  editor  of  The  Cottaye  Mcartti,  ard  co-editor  of  (Jvr 
Sunday  Afternoon.  Mr.  Allen  has  contributed  to  various  periodicals,  and  is  the  author 
«f  several  books  for  young  people—"  Pine  Cones,"  and  others. 


THALATTA. 

Far  over  the  billows  unresting  forever 

She  flits,  my  white  bird  of  the  sea, 
Now  skyward,  now  earthward,  storm-drifted^but  never 

A  wing-beat  nearer  to  me. 

With  eye  soft  as  death  or  the  mist-wreaths' above  her, 

She  timidly  gazes  below; 
O  never  had  sea-bird  a  man  for  a  lover, 

And  little  recks  she  of  his  woe. 

One  sweet,  startled  note  of  amazement  she  utters, 
One  white  plume  floats  downward  to  me— 

Away  in  the  darkness  a  snowy  wing  flutters- 
Night— darkness— alone  with  the  sea. 


MARCIA  DOW  BRADBURY  JORDAN. 


797 


TO  A  VERY  SMALL  PINE. 


What  song  is  in  thy  heart, 

Thou  puny  tree  ? 
Weak  pinelet  that  thou  art, — 
Trembling  at  every  shock, 
Thy  feebleness  doth  mock 
Thy  high  degree. 

When  rage  o'er  sea  and  land 

The  trumpets  wild, 
How  canst  thou  e'er  withstand 
Their  might,  or  baffle  them 
With  that  frail,  quivering  stem, 
Poor  forest  child  ? 

Nay,  wherefore  scoff  at  thy 

Dimensions  small  ? 
For,  folded  close,  I  spy 
A  wee,  wee  bud,  scarce  seen 
Within  its  cradle  green; 
And,  after  all, 


In  ages  yet  to  come 

Thy  stately  form, 
No  longer  dwarfed  and  dumb, 
But  chanting  to  the  breeze 
Sublime,  swee't  melodies, 
Shall  breast  the  storm ! 

Beneath  thine- outstretched  arms 

Shall  children  rest; 
While,  safe  from  all  alarms, 
Within  thy  shadows  deep 
Wild  birds  their  tryst  shall  keep 
And  weave  their  nest. 

May  such  a  lot  be  his 

Who  tends  thee  now ! 
With  heavenly  harmonies 
Serene  amid  his  foes, 
Outstretching  as  he  grows 
In  root  and  bough. 


CONTENTMENT. 
A  dandelion  in  a  meadow  grew, 

Among  the  waving  grass  and  cowslips  yellow, 
Dining  on  sunshine,  breakfasting  on  dew, 

He  was  a  right  contented  little  fellow. 

Each  morn  his  golden  head  he  lifted  straight, 
To  catch  the  first  sweet  breath  of  coming  day; 

Each  evening  closed  his  sleepy  eyes,  to  wait 
Until  the  long,  dark  night  had  passed  away. 

One  afternoon,  in  sad,  unquiet  mood, 
I  paused  beside  this  tiny,  bright-faced  flower, 

And  begged  that  he  would  tell  me,  if  he  could, 
The  secret  of  his  joy  through  sun  and  shower. 

He  looked  at  me  with  open  eyes,  and  said : 
"I  know  the  sun  is  somewhere  shining  clear, 

And  when  I  cannot  see  him  overhead 
I  try  to  be  a  little  sun  right  here." 


<\nid  jjlow  jjmdbwQ  jjanfan. 

Marcia  Dow  Bradbury,  youngest  daughter  of  Hon.  Bion  Bradbury,  of  Portland;  born  in 
Eastport,  Feb.  6,  1855;  married  Edward  (J.  Jordan,  of  Portland,  and  resides  in  that  city. 
Mrs.  Jordan  is  a  regular  contributor  to  several  of  tlie  leading  magazines  and  literary 
journals. 


798  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


A  SUMMER  SKIRMISH. 

Across  the  lawn  my  swift  steps  sped 

Among  the  locusts  and  the  lilac: 
An  empty  hammock!  she  had  fled! 

I  sighed  and  murmured,  "  Always  my  luck!'* 
But  something  feminine  I  spied — 

A  big  straw  hat,  with  lace  a-tangle, 
Abandoned  in  her  hammock-ride 

And  left  upon  a  bough  to  dangle ! 

I  took  it  from  its  pretty  perch 

And  viewed  it  with  a  sort  of  wonder 
Until  my  fancy  in  its  search 

Evoked  a  sweet  face  laughing  under : 
How  well  two  hazel  eyes  would  fit 

A  fluff  of  golden  hair  red-tinted, — 
A  scornful  mouth  subdued  a  bit 

By  cheeks  with  reckless  dimples  dinted ! 

What  would  I  give  to  have  that  face 
Enwreathed  with  smiles  to  greet  my  coming  — 

To  clasp  that  form  all  girlish  grace — 
To  kiss  those  lips  with  roses  blooming! 

What,  here!     You've  come  to  get  your  hat  ? 

You  smile  ?    Confess,  fair  lady  haughty, 
To  run  away  from  me  like  that 

Was  just  the  least  unkind  and  naughty. 
Hasn't  the  dark  cloud  rolled  away, 

Melted  like  mist  at  briefest  warning, 
And  won't  the  frowns  of  yesterday 

Turn  into  happiness  this  morning  ? 

Good  luck !  I  see  the  skies  are  fair ! 

What,  sorry  ?  O  my  dear,  relenting  ? 
You  fled  because  you  did  not  care 

To  have  me  find  you  here  repenting  ? 
A  lover's  quarrel,  like  the  dew, 

Needs  sunshine's  rays  to  dissipate  it, 
And  ours  was  one  so  trifling,  too, 

I  shouldn't  like  to  hear  you  state  it! 

Becoming?    Yes;  don't  be  afraid! 

With  such  enormous  brim,  or  visor — 
One  kiss,  beneath  its  ample  shade, 

And  nobody  will  be  the  wiser ! 


WILLIAM  FRANKLIN  McNAMARA,  799 


A  LESSON  IX  GEOGRAPHY. 
"  A  lesson  in  Geography 

With  all  the  States  to  bound!" 
My  boys  grew  sober  in  a  trice, 

And  shook  their  heads  and  frowned.— 
And  this  was  in  the  nursery 

Where  only  smiles  are  found. 

Then  suddenly  up  jumped  Boy  Blue,  — 

Youngest  of  all  is  he,  — 
And  stood  erect  beside  my  chair. 

"Mamma,"  he  said,  "bound  me!" 
And  all  the  other  lads  looked  up 

With  faces  full  of  glee. 

I  gravely  touched  his  curly  head  : 

"North  by  a  little  pate 
That's  mixed  in  mental  'rithmetic/ 

And  'can't  get  fractions  straight.' 
That  never  knows  what  time  it  is, 

Nor  where  are  books  or  slate. 

South  by  two  feet—  two  restless  feet 

That  never  tire  of  play, 
Yet  always  gladly  run  abroad 

(Although  a  holiday) 
On  others'  errands  willingly 

In  most  obliging  way. 

"  East  by  a  pocket  stuffed  and  crammed 

With,  O  so  many  things  ! 
With  tops  and  toys  and  bits  of  wood, 

And  pennies,  knives  and  strings, 
And  by  a  little  fist  that  lacks 

The  glow  that  water  brings. 

"West  by  the  same;  and  well  explored 

The  pocket  by  the  fist; 
The  capital,  two  rosy  lips 

All  ready  to  be  kissed. 
And  darling  —  now  I've  bounded  you, 

Your  class  may  be  dismissed." 


Born  in  Camden,  Me.,  in  1855,  on  the  summit  of  a  hill  overlooking  some  of  the  finest 
scenery  in  New  England.  More  of  his  early  days  were  spent  in  the  fields  arid  woods  of 
his  native  town  than  in  the  school-  room.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  injuries  sustained 
through  a  fall  on  the  ice,  confined  him  to  the  house  for  a  period  of  three  years,  and 


800  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


afterward  a  more  serious  misfortune  befell  him;  his  eyesight  became  impaired.  He  was 
obliged  to  discontinue  writing  for  quite  a  long  time.  Prior  to  this  period,  and  since 
then,  he  has  contributed  to  various  papers  under  the  nom  de  phime  of  "  Harry  Hazle- 
ton."  Mr.  McXamara  is  most  happily  mated,  and  now  resides  at  Mapleton,  in  this  State. 

THREESCORE. 
Above  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 

That  rove  amid  the  garden's  bloom, 
A  clear  young  voice  comes  on  the  breeze, 

As  glad  and  sweet  as  if  no  gloom 
Bent  o'er  the  dreary  world  to-day; 

And  listening  to  the  quaint  old  lay— 
A  melody  my  childhood  knew— 

I  half  forget  that  I  am  gray, 
And  softly  hum  the  measures  through. 

O  it  does  seem  so  long  since  then;— 
Since  like  this  artless  child  I  sang! 

And  threescore  cannot  sing  as  ten, 
For  silver  bells,  which  sweetly  rang 

For  joyous  youth,  are  silent  now; 
So  if  I  sing  it  must  be  low, 

But  O  how  gladly  would  I  fling- 
Aside  the  spoil  of  years  to  go 

And  with  this  careless  urchin  sin<r! 


^arleton  jjinex  jjtoddnrd. 


Mra."Ada  Carleton  Hines  Stoddard  was  born  at  Presque  Isle,  Me.,  Dec  30  1855  and 
married  Orrick  II.  Stoddard,  at  Washburn,  Aug.  29,  1877.  She  began  to  write  when  Very 
young,  merely  for  the  simple  pleasure  of  writing—  she  now  writes  for  profit  as  well  as 
pleasure,  and  there  is  a  constantly  increasing  demand  for  her  work.  She  is  also  editori 
ally  connected  with  several  leading  periodicals.  Her  mother,  formerly  a  very  successful 
school-teacher,  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Ella  H.  Stratton,  are  elsewhere  represented  in  this 
volume. 


SELLING  THE  BABY. 
Under  a  shady  maple 

Two  little  brown-eyed  boys 
Were  complaining  to  each  other 

That  they  couldn't  make  a  noise: 
"And  'tis  all  that  horrid  baby!" 

Cried  Johnny,  looking  glum; 
"She  makes  an  awful  bother; 

I  'most  wish  she  hadn't  come! 

"  If  a  boy  runs  through  the  kitchen 
Still  as  any  mouse  could  creep, 


ADA  CABLE  TON  HINE8  8TODDARD.  8W 


Nora  says,  'Now  do  be  easy, 
For  the  baby 's  gone  to  sleep !' 

And,  just  now,  when  I  asked  mamma 
To  mend  my  Sunday  cap, 

She  said  she  really  couldn't 
Till  the  baby  took  a  nap  !" 

"I've  been  thinking  we  might  sell  her," 

Fred  tossed  back  his  curly  hair; 
"Mamma  calls  her  'Little  Trouble,' 

So  I  don't  believe  she'd  care; 
We  will  take  her  down  to  Johnson's — 

He  keeps  candy  at  his  store, 
And  I  wouldn't  wonder,  truly, 

If  she  'd  bring'  a  pound,  or  more. 

"  For  he  asked  me  if  I  'd  sell  her 

When  she  first  came,  but,  you  see, 
Then  I  didn't  know  she'd  bother — 

So  I  told  him,  'No,  sir-ree!' 
He  may  have  her  now,  and  welcome — 

I  don't  want  her  any  more; 
Get  the  carriage  'round  here,  Johnny, 

And  I'll  bring  her  to  the  door!" 

To  the  cool,  green-curtained  bed-room, 

Freddy  stole,  with  noiseless  feet; 
Where  mamma  had  left  her  baby 

Fast  asleep,  serene  and  sweet. 
Soft  he  bore  her  to  the  carriage, 

All  unknowing,  little  bird; 
While,  of  these  two  young  kidnappers, 

Not  a  sound  had  mamma  heard. 

Down  the  street  the  carriage  trundled, 

Soundly  still  the  baby  slept; 
Over  two  sun-browned  boy-faces 

Little  sober  shadows  crept. 
They  began  to  love  the  wee  one — 

"Say!"  said  Johnny,  "don't  you  think 
He  should  give  for  such  a  baby, 

Twenty  pounds,  as  quick  as  wink  ?" 

"I'd  say  fifty,"  Fred  responded, 
With  his  brown  e^yes  downward  cast; 

"  Here's  the  store;  it  doesn't  seem  that 
We  have  come  so  verv  fast !" 


8 <)2  Til K  FOE  AS  O  F  MA  L\ E. 


Through  the  door  tliey  pushed  the  carriage: 
"Mr.  Johnson,— we  thought— maybe 

You  would— you  would— would  you— you  would- 
Would  you  like  to  buy  a  baby  ?" 

Merchant  Johnson's  eyes  were  twinkling: 

"  Well,  I  would;  just  set  your  price. 
Will  you  take  your  pay  in  candy  ? 

I  have  some  that's  very  nice; 
But,  before  we  bind  the  bargain , 

I  would  like  to  see  the  child." 
Johnny  lifted  up  the  afghan; 

Baby  woke,  and  cooed,  and  smiled. 

"Tis  a  trade!"  cried  merchant  Johnson; 

"How  much  candy  for  the  prize ?" 
Fred  and  Johnny  looked  at  baby, 

Then  into  each  other's  eyes: 
All  the  bother  was  forgotten 

In  the  light  of  baby's  smile — 
And  they  wondered  if  mamma  had 

Missed  her  darling  yet,  the  while. 

"Candy's  sweet,  but  baby's  sweeter!" 

Spoke  up  sturdy  little  Fred; 
"'Cause  she  is  our  own  and  onliest 

Darling  sister,"  Johnny  said, 
"So  we  think  we'd  better  keep  her—" 

"But,  if  you  should  ask  Him" — maybe, 
When  he  knows  you  'd  like  to  have  one — 

"  God  will  send  you  down  a  baby!" 

Merchant  Johnson  laughed,  and  kindly 

Run  their  small  hands  o'er  with  sweets, 
Ere  they  wheeled  the  baby  homeward — 

Back  along  the  quiet  streets. 
And  mamma,  who  had  not  missed  them, 

Smiled  to  hear  the  little  tale- 
How  they  went  to  sell  the  baby; 

Why  they  didn't  mike  the  sale! 


Born  in  Dover,  N.  H.,  Jan.  18,  185G;  spent  his  boyhood  days  in  South  Berwick,  Me., 
where  his  father  and  brother  still  reside;  graduated,later  from  "Berwick  Academy,  at  South 
Berwick,  and  from  the  Friends'  School,  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  in  1876,  and  from  Brown 
University,  in  the  same  city,  in  1880.  Attended  medical  lectures  at  Brunswick,  Me., 
during  the  winter  of  1881,  and  visited  Kurope  in  1882.  Graduated  from  the  University  of 
the  City  of  New  York  in  1-883  and  practiced  medicine  at  Ogunquit,  Me.,  in  1884  and  1885, 
at  which  place  he  wrote  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  "  Shore  Life  in  Song  "  which  was 
published  at  the  Biddeford  Journal  office,  Biddeford,  Me.,  in  1886.  Mr.  Hale  is  now  a 
resident  of  Dover,  N.  H. 


WILLIAM  HALE. 


CAPE  NEDDICK  HARBOR. 
A  fair  green  slope  on  either  hand ; 
Between,  a  reach  of  silver  sand, 

That  like  a  gleaning  sickle  bends 
Along  the  shore,  and  with  it  blends. 

Northward,  a  grove  of  walnut-trees 
Defies  the  might  of  wind  and  seas. 

Southward,  on  Nubble-Point,  the  light; 
By  day  a  sturdy  shaft  of  white, 

By  night  a  glowing  crimson  eye, 
By  which  the  coastwise  vessels  hie 

Unto  the  little  harbor's  peace, 
From  wind  and  wave  to  find  release. 

And  far  away,  broad  off  at  sea, 
Lone  vigil  keeping  constantly, 

Rises  the  warning  finger  high 
Of  lonely  Boon  against  the  sky, 

Faithful  unto  its  solemn  trust, 
Mute  monitor  of  wave  and  gust. 

The  waves  across  the  harbor  reach, 
And  sing  upon  the  pebbly  beach; 

And  in  the  roads  a  schooner  white 
Foldeth  her  great  broad  wings  from  flight, 

And  in  the  harbor  deep  and  wide 
Her  anchor  drops  in  safety's  tide. 

While  echoing  faintly  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  little  waves  reach  up  the  shore, 

To  softly  lap  the  old  brown  piers, 
The  haunt  of  seamen  spent  in  years, 

Limping  down  to  seaward  gaze, 
And  sadly  dream  of  other  days. 

Who,  like  disabled  vessels,  rest 
Amid  those  scenes  that  they  love  best; 

Like  yon  black  hulk  upon  the  shore 
Whose  days  of  usefulness  are  o'er, 

Dismantled,  worm-eaten,  alone, 
Unnoticed,  save  by  waves  that  moan 

Through  its  poor  bones  a  ruthless  surge, 
A  mournful,  hollow  funeral-dirge, 


804  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


And  landward  now  the  little  bight, 
Grown  narrower,  is  lost  to  sight 

Under  a  low  bridge  that  combines 
Both  towns  in  one,  yet  each  defines; 

And  thus  unites,  makes  one  again 
What  the  river  parted  in  twain. 

O'er  Aga mentions  a  star 

Sendeth  its  "good  night"  from  afar, 

And  through  the  mellow  sunset-sky 
The  glowing  hill-tops  smile  "good  by< 


<jllm<i  jjemhxteti  jjxiten. 


?;i,Haiwd?n  ^S  b°r,n  in  Limerick.  Me.,  in  1856,  graduating  from  the  classical 
t  the  Maine  Central  Institute  of  Pittsfield,  in  1875,  and  afterward,  with  a  view 
.o  teaching,  studied  the  languages  and  music,  in  Portland  While  in  school  she  contrib 
uted  poems  to  the  Portland  Transcript,  Golden  Rule,  and  other  periodicals.  She  first 
taught  m  the  Literary  Institution  at  Lyndon,  Vt.,  and  for  the  next  seven  years  in  the 
Norway  High  School.  In  1884  she  accepted  a  position  in  the  High  School  at  Sparta 
Wis.,  continuing  her  literary  contributions  to  both  eastern  and  western  publications' 
She  was  marned  to  Mr.  C.  H.  Hayden,  of  Manchester,  Mass.,  in  1886,  and  has  one  child', 


Arthur. 


MOTHER-DAYS. 

O  for  the  glad  days,  O  for  the  happy  days, 
When  we  were  playing  within  mother's  call! 
O  for  the  voice  that  spoke  in  the  twilight, 
Just  as  the  shades  were  beginning  to  fall: 
"Come  home,  child— come  home!" 

O  for  the  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  forehead  ! 
O  for  the  sound  of  her  step  in  the  hall! 
O  for  those  dear  words,  spoken  so  sweetly, 
Answering  oft  to  our  childish  call: 
"  Good  night,  dear — good  night!" 

O  for  the  mother-heart,  sharing  our  trouble! 
O^for  her  kiss  when  the  day  has  gone  wrong! 
O  to  be  taken  into  her  loving  arms! 
O  to  be  hushed  by  her  lullaby  song: 
"To  sleep,  child— to  sleep!" 

Never  a  year  so  long,  never  a  distance, 
But  that  my  heart  turns,  mother,  to  thee — 
Hears  in  the  twilight  thy  tender  voice  calling 
Out  of  the  shadows,  calling  to  me: 
"Come  home,  child — come  home!" 


LET1TIA  CATHARINE  V  ANN  AH.  805 


Ifptitm  (jfeatlmririe 


Miss  Letitia  C.  Vannah  of  Gardiner,  Me.,  was  born  in  1856,  and  is  not  only  a  poet  of 
acknowledged  ability,  but  an  artist,  musician  and  equestrienne  as  well.  She  has  written 
some  critical  and  transient  matter  in  prose,  and  has  contributed  in  verse  to  some  of  the 
leading  magazines  and  literary  and  religious  journals.  A  volume  of  her  poems,  under 
the  modest  title  of  "  Verses,"*  was  published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  in  1883.  Miss 
Vannah's  songs  have  been  sung  widely  in  concerts,  particularly  those  entitled  '*  Come,  for 
the  Sun  is  Going  Down,"  and  "  O  Salutaris."  She  has  a  rare  gift  for  song-writing,  and  is 
also  happy  in  the  composition  of  humorous  verse. 


A  PRAYER. 

Teach  me  to  sing  when  my  heart  is  aching, 
When  my  flesh  is  wounded,  then  let  me  laugh ; 

Send  me  to  comfort  hearts  that  are  breaking, 
Make  me  smile  bravely  when  gall  1  quaff. 

Send  me  with  faith  to  souls  that  doubt  Thee, — 
Earnestness,  deep,  to  the  careless  heart; 

Unto  proud  souls  that  have  lived  without  Thee, 
Let  me  humility's  grace  impart. 

Let  me  awaken  those  that  slumber, 
Charge  them  to  watch  with  fidelity; 

Place  in  my  pathway  those  without  number. 
So  I  may  lead  but  one  soul  to  Thee! 

Let  me  be  heedless  of  human  praises, 
Let  me  be  brave  when  dangers  arise; 

Let  me  gaze  coldly  where  passion  blazes, 
Let  me  walk  chastely,  with  lowered  eyes. 

Let  me  depart  from  my  best  and  dearest, 
If,  by  my  staying,  I  cloud  a  white  thought: 

Oft  soul  to  the  soul  it  best  love,  is  nearest 
When  hearts,  divided,  with  pain  are  fraught. 

SOXG. 
Thy  face  is  as  the  face  of  one 

Expectant— ready — if  the  morrow 
Should  summon  thee,  henceforth,  to  lie 

Within  the  arms  of  Sorrow. 

Thine  eyes  seem  listening  when  they're  gray — 

Thou  smilest — they  are  blue; 
And  they  are  like  forget-me-nots 

That  are  aglow  with  dew. 

Thy  voice!    It  is  as  though  thou  wert 

Thy  life's  sole  lover  leaving ; 
A  harp  whose  strings  the  west  winds  kiss 

And  leave,  at  twilight  grieving. 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thine  is  in  truth  the  most  sensitive  mouth 

Mine  eyes  have  ever  seen  : 
A  tender  word  from  thee  must  be 

Sweeter  than  Music's  voice,  I  ween ! 

SONNET. 

Low  leans  the  lily  to  the  wooing  breeze, 
See  how  she  trembles  'neath  his  warm  caress, 
Yet,  all  unused  to  love,  she  strives  to  please, 
And,  if  she  please,  is  filled  with  happiness. 
Far  other  is  the  mien  of  yonder  rose, 
Clad  is  she  with  scornful  majesty: 
Ohl^who  shall  dare  to  her  his  love  disclose, 
Or  haply  keep  unawed  before  her  eye  ? 
E'en  so  'tis  vain  to  woo  that  heart  of  thine, 
E'en  so  'tis  vain  to  worship  at  its  shrine, 
Where  sits  enthroned  high  thoughts  of  tilings  above, 
Abstract,  and  noting  not  this  verse  of  mine, 
Whose'sober^plaint  must  unavailing  prove, 
E'en  though  it  hide  thy  name  as  doth  my  heart  thy  love. 


<JP#/'fl#r£/  Jjjifam 


j  Miss  Margaret  E.  Jordan  was  born  in  Portland.  Feb.  8,  1856,  and  received  her  early 
education  in  this  city.  After  her  ninth  year  she  attended  the  Academy  of  the  Nuns  of 
the  Congregation  of  Notre  Dame  from  Ville  Marie,  and  graduated  there.  She  has  pub 
lished  two  volumes  of  verse,  "  Gathered  Leaves,"  in  1878,  and  "  Echoes  from  the  Pines." 
the  latter  issued  by  the  house  of  McGowan  &  Young,  Portland,  in  1886.  She  has  recently 
edited  an  American  edition  of  "A  Daughter  of  St.  Dominic,"  which  is  being  received 
with  much  favor. 


ON  GAPE  ELIZABETH. 

Deep  azure  wrought  with  threads  of  golden  sheen, - 
Silvery-gray  the  interlining  fair, — 
Earth's  cloud-robe  floats  ad  own  a  sea  of  air. 

Rests  the  deep  ocean  tranquilly  between 

Cliffs  of  dulse  brown  and  isles  of  emerald  green. 
Sere  willows,  pensive,  bow;  in  vesture  rare 
Proud  oaks  attend  the  queenly  maple;  there 

The  pine  reigns  monarch  of  the  sylvan  scene. 

Yon  skiffs, f the  ocean's  white-robed  children,  sleep, 
Nor  toss  in'slumber  in  her  fondling  arms. 

Poised  on  the  main,  birds  rest  on  southward  flight, 

Peace  hovers,  pinions  spread,  o'er  land  and  deep, 
Her  wings  soft  zephyrs  lulling  hearts'  alarms. 

So  rests  the  Finite  in  the  Infinite. 


BYRON  T.  KING.  807 


BEAUTIFUL  ISLES  OF  THE  SHOALS. 

AIR:  "BEAUTIFUL  ISLE  OF  THE  SEA." 
Beautiful  Isles  of  the  Shoals,  While  standing  on  thee,  we  gaze 

Rising  from  midst  of  the  ocean,          Far  o'er  the  deep  rolling  ocean — 
Oazing  upon  you,  our  souls  Minds  fill  with  deepest  amaze, 

Swell  with  the  deepest  emotion.          Souls,  with  the  deepest  devotion. 
Silver  and  azure  your  skies ; 

Pure  as  the  winds  that  caress  you ;  CIIO._Beautif ul  Isles  of  the  Shoals. 
Foamy  the  billows  that  rise 

In  their  wild  voice  to  address  you. 

Fair  art  thou,  Isle  of  the  "Star!" 

CHORUS.  Seen  >neath   the  SU11,S    brightest 

Beautiful  Isles  of  the  Shoals!  beaming- 

Rising  from  midst  of  the  ocean,          Fair  wh^n  he  g'hedg  frQm  afaj. 
Thrilling  with  grandeur  our  souls,        Q,er  thee  Mg  lagt  ,.        ril        leam_ 
Beautiful,    beautiful    Isles    of    the  infp. 

Fair,  when  the  dark  midnight  skies 
Beautiful  Isle  of  the  "Star,"  Show  forth  their  silvery  lining; 

Fairest  of  all  the  fair  islands,  And  when  the  moon  doth  arise, 

Out  in  the  ocean  afar,  Proud  in  her  glorious  shining. 

Stretching  thy  proud  rocky  high 
lands;  CHO. — Beautiful  Isles  of  the  Shoals. 


(I. 


Byron  T.  King  was  born  on  Munjoy  Hill,  Portland,  Me.,  April  15,  1856;  he  was  the 
youngest  of  five  children  by  the  late  Mrs.  Catherine  Devine  King,  who  died  in  Portland, 
Kovember,  1885.  As  a  boy  he  worked  in  the  dry-goods  business  in  Portland,  and  after 
wards  in  Boston,  New  York,  and  other  cities;  he  has  been  a  great  traveler  on  both  the 
continents.  On  his  return  to  this  country,  in  1879.  he  went  South,  where,  in  1884,  he  was 
married  to  a  Miss  Block,  an  acknowledged  Southern  belle  and  a  very  talented  lady. 
Shortly  after  marriage  he  removed  to  Springfield,  Mo.,  where  he  is  now  a  very  success 
ful  dry-goods  merchant.  He  has  written  many  pieces  over  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Rex." 


LIFE'S  TRUE  SIGNIFICANCE. 
Deeper  than  all  sense  of  seeing 

Lies  the  secret-  source  of  being, 
And  the  soul,  with  truth  agreeing, 

Learns  to  live  in  thoughts  and  deeds; 
For  the  life  is  more  than  raiment, 

And  the  earth  is  pledged  for  payment 
Unto  man  for  all  his  needs. 

Nature  is  our  common  mother, 
Every  living  man  our  brother; 

Therefore  let  us  serve  each  other, 
Not  to  meet  the  law's  behests, 


K08  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


But  because  through  cheerful  giving 

We  shall  earn  the  art  of  living; 
And  to  live  and  serve  is  best. 

Life  is  more  than  what  man  fancies! 

Not  a  game  of  idle  chances; 
But  it  steadily  advances 

Up  the  rugged  heights  of  time, 
Till  each  complex  web  of  trouble, 

Every  sad  hope's  broken  bubble, 
Hath  a  meaning  most  sublime. 

More  religion,  less  profession  ! 

More  firmness,  less  concessidi; 
More  of  freedom,  less  oppression, 

In  the  church  and  in  the  state; 
More 'of  life  and  less  of  fashion, 

More  of  love  and  less  of  passion  — 
That  will  make  us  good  and  great. 

When  true  hearts,  divinely  gifted, 
From  the  chaff  of  error  sifted, 

On  their  crosses  are  uplifted, 
Shall  the  world  most  clearly  see 

That  earth's  greatest  time  of  trial 
Calls. for  holy  self-denial, 

Calls  on  men  to  do  and  be. 

But  forever  and  forever, 
Let  it  be  the  soul's  endeavor 

Love  from  hatred  to  discover, 
And  in  whatso'er  we  do, 

Won  by  love's  eternal  beauty 
To  our  highest  sense  of  duty, 

Evermore  be  firm  and  true. 


(Elizabeth  Hamilton  jjateman. 

U<^2?  ^—^  XS3P^ 

Elizabeth  Hamilton  Bateman  was  born  in  Portland,  Me., about  1856.  She  is  the  daugh 
ter  of  J.  F.  and  L  J.  Bateman.  Her  father  was  a  native  of  England.  This  lady  has 
written  some  fine  poems,  which  have  appeared  in  leading  publications. 


A  PICTURE. 
A  sky  so  fair— a  summer's  day — 

White  screaming  gulls  low-flying, 
A  beach  where  breakers  toss  in  spray, 
Beyond  the  ocean  far  away 

Winged  sails  in  distance  dying — 


HA  HE  Y  J.  CHA  PMA  N.  809 

Upon  the  sands,  two  lately  met 

Walk  on  midst  strange  confusion 
Of  rock,  drift-wood,  and  fishing- -net. 
Until  they're  lost,  a  silhouette, 

'Twixt  sky  and  sea  illusion. 

A  glorious  sky— a  setting  sun, 

The  gulls  have  ceased  their  living; 
The  sails  hie  homeward  one  by  oner 
For  two  the  day  has  just  begu.:. 

And  yet  the  day  is  dying. 

MAENNERTREU, 

(MAX'S  CONSTANCY.) 

A  GKHMAN  KLOAVKI5  WILTING  AS  SOON  AS  GATHERED. 
A  bit  of  maennertreu  blue, 

Its  life  in  a  meadow  beginning, 
So  wondrously  brave  and  true, 
Seemed  ever  the  maennertreu  blue, 
But  the  story  is  old  and  new, 
The  flower  died  in  the  winning! 


where  he  received  the  degree  of  LL.  B.    He  now  has  an  office  hi Tangor.  * 

MITHRA. 

Mithra,  all  hail,  thou  bright  god  of  the  day, 

All  hail  unto  thee,  source  of  fresh  delight, 
High  shoot  thy  beams  above  the  eastern  way, 

And  crimson  all  the  sky,  late  ruled  by  night. 
Thy  gentle  beams  kiss,  with  the  breathing  dawn, 

The  joyous  earth,  the  mountain,  hill  and  cloud; 
The  dewy  flower  nods  in  the  early  morn, 

While  all  the  birds  ring  peans  sweet  ancUoud. 

O  Mithra,  well  did  mighty  nations  kneel, 

And  bow  unto  thee  in  that  olden  time, 
When  all  the  earth  was  young,  and  man,  to  feel 

God's  presence,  looked  upon  thy  works  sublime; 
Saw  the  warm  earth,  beneath  thy  gentle  kiss, 

Array  herself  in  beauties  manifold; 
Saw  nature  bloom,  a  paradise  of  bliss, 

And  worship  thee,  the  source  of  joys  untold. 

63 


810  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

The  hopes  and  glories  of  each  fleeting  day 

Are  brought  unto  us  on  thy  rising  beams; 
The  soul  is  thrilled,  the  vision  flits  away, 

The  airy  castles  fade,  and  end  in  dreams. 
Life  speeds  away,  the  sun  may  brightly  shine, 

Propitious  gales  may  blow,  to-day  be  fair, 
To-morrow  all  our  hopes  and  dreams  decline, 

The  sun  goes  down  in  darkness  and  despair. 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  make  up  the  meed  of  life, 

They  echo  in  the  heart,  like  heavenly  chimes 
Of  music,  sweet,  to  cheer  us  in  the  strife, 

The  sun  goes  down  to  rise  on  fairer  climes. 
Old  hopes  may  die,  aud  yet  new  hopes  arise ; 

There  is  no  height  to  which  the  soul  may  soar, 
But  what  new  scenes,  ambition,  fairer  skies 

Are  there,  and  onward  stretch  forevermore. 


Abbie  Nelsia  Partridge  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  S.  H.  Partridge,  of  Greenfield, 
N.  H.  Born  in  Lebanon,  Me.,  Sept.  15,  1857.  In  1859  her  parents  removed  to  York,  Me., 
where  they  resided  for  ten  years.  In  1870  they  removed  to  Greenfield,  N.  H.,  where  she 
still  resides.  She  has  written  both  prose  and  poetry  for  newspapers  and  magazines.  Her 
poems  appear  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Nelsia  Bird." 

A  MUSIC  LESSON. 
I  hung  the  cage  in  the  window,          Lo !  as  the  sun  bent  westward, 

When  the  summer  day  was  fair;        A  strain  of  music  sweet — 
The  sound  of  merry  warblers  A  melody  Italian 

Thrilled  all  the  morning  air,  From  an  organ  on  the  street. 

But  the  golden  head  hung  listless 

And'the  singer's  voice  was  mute;  Then  the  golden  head  was  lifted 
No  wild  bird  waked  the  echoes  With  interest  strange  and  new, 

Of  that  little  silent  lute.  From  the  little  throat  came  singing 

The  sweet  notes  clear  and  true ; 
I  touched  the  keys  of  the  organ         She  sang  till  twilight  shadows 

And  sang  a  simple  song,  Were  merged  in  sombre  night, 

No  answer  came  to  greet  me,  Then  drooped  her  wings  contented 

Still  there  was  something  wrong;      To  wait  the  morning  light. 
If  I  but  knew  the  music 

That  it  would  like  the  best,  [bers  We  live  and  walk  with  loved  ones 
Could  I  reach  the  chord  that  slum-      In  every  circle  dear, 

Deep  in  my  birdling's  breast —       Whose  souls  are  full  of  music, 

But  none  we  ever  hear; 

know  there  is  sweetest  music          For  naught  has  touched  the  key-note 

Could  I  but  find  the  key;  Or  swept  the  subtle  strings, 

will  wait  perchance  that  somehow  That  was  in  harmony 

It  may  be  sent  to  me.  With  what  the  spirit  sings. 


WALTER  A.  BICE.— FRANCES  L.  B.  DAMON.  811 


But  when  the  Father  willeth,  But  it  will  open  flood-gates 
The  secret  will  be  found;  To  joyous,  happy  song, 

It  may  be  very  simple,  That  will  not  cease  its  echoes — 
We  might  depise  the  sound,  As  ages  roll  along. 


jjfalter  <jlllm  j^iu. 

Walter  Allen  Rice  was  born  Jan.  14,  1857.  in  Bangor,  Me  He  graduated  from  the  Ban 
gor  High  School  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  immediately  entered  the  Senior  Class  of 
Phillips  Academy  Exeter,  N.  H.  Graduating  a  year  later,  he  was  admitted  to 
Harvard  College  in  the  year  1876,  and  passed  the  Freshman  year.  Since  then  in  connec 
tion  with  various  occupations,  he  has  accomplished  a  large  amount  of  literary  work  of  a 
miscellaneous  character.  He  has  contributed  to  many  New  England  publications  and 
was  at  one  time  connected  with  the  well-known  publishing  house  of  Houghton  Mittiin 
&  Co..  (Riverside  Press)  Cambridge.  He  married  Lydia  A.  Chase  of  ftoxbury,'  Mass., 
«July  5j  1887. 

EAGLE  LIGHT. 
Midst  the  blossomless  meadows  of  Ocean, 

The  broad,  trackless  prairie  of  green, 
Where  the  wavelets  are  cradled  by  zephyrs, 
And  sea-nymphs  dance  over  the  scene, 
An  island  peeps  up  from  the  deep, 
Aroused  from  its  mystical  sleep; 
And  off  in  the  shadowy  distance, 
Formany  an  unmeasured  mile, 
The  sailor  boy  eagerly  watches 
The  light  on  this  magical  isle. 

Through  the  vistas  of  years  quite  unnumbered, 

While  mermaids  have  chanted  their  psalm, 
And  the  tempests  have  raged  or  have  slumbered 

Through  long,  languid  summers  of  calm, 
When  glittering  tapers  of  night, 
From  yonder  bewildering  height, 
Emblazon.the  halls  of  old  Ocean, 

Or  shrink  from  the  storm  clouds  in  flight, 
Ever  gleams,  mid  calm  or  commotion, 

A  fixed  warning  star— Eagle  Light. 


Ijtwiz  jjmckett  Jjaman. 

Mrs.  F  L.  B  Damon  the  editor  of  the  new  magazine,  "  Quiet  Hours."  was  born  in 
Dexter  Me.,  about  18o7.  and  lived  for  seventeen  years  on  a  farm  in  that  town.  She  gra  1- 
uated  trom  Castme  Normal  School,  and  shortly  afterwards  was  married  to  the  gentle 
man  whose  name  she  bears.  Mrs.  Damon  is  a  cousin  of  the  well-known  author  and  lec- 
irer  Greprge  Makepeace  Towle.  It  is  said  that  she  has  written  verse  nearly  every  week 
5  1880;  she  is  also  the  author  of  two  or  more  novels  one  of  which  is  entitled  ''Idle- 
wise.  Beside  being  a  tine  essayist  and  editorial  writer,  Mrs.  Damon  exhibits  much 
interest  in  school  matters  having  been  at  one  time  a  successful  teacher  Earlv  soeci- 
mens  of  her  poetry,  under  the  nom,  de  plume  of  <•  Percy  Larkin,"  appeared  in  the  Port 
land  Iranscnpt  and  Morning  Star.  Her  longest  poem,  hitherto,  is  "  The  Wind  Flower  " 
which  has  been  characterized  as  ••  full  of  melody." 


sr/5 


THE  POETS  OF  ^fAINE. 


VIOLETS. 


The  poet  readies  forth  his  hands 

To  touch  the  thrilling  finger-tips 
That  burn  on  hemispheric  sands, 
That  flame  the  hills  and  light  the 

ships. 
Enough  of  bliss, 

Enough— and  yet, 
Give  him  but  this: 
A  violet. 

The  pott  shuts  his  weary  eyes "^ 
And  sweeps  the  burning  day  afar, 

He  hears  beneath  his  purple  skies 
The  rustle  of  his  speeding  star; 


The  streams  that  spend, 
The  springs  that  keep, 

The  leaves  that  rend, 
The  buds  that  sleep. 

They  blossom  slowly,  one  by  one, 

The  winsome  little  valley  through, 
But  when  they  find  the  brooks  that 

run, 
They  laugh  and  blossom  two  by 

two; 
And  when  they  meet 

The  poet's  eye 

They  twinkle  fleet 

As  vesper  sky. 


Jgande. 


Born  in  Portland.  Me.,  in  1843.  Attended  one  of  the  private  schools  of  the  city  until 
nine  years  of  age,  when  she  entered  the  Grammar  School;  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  the 
High  School,  being  a  member  of  the  graduating  class  of  1861.  Two  years  later  she 
removed  to  Boston,  Mass.,  and  became  identified  with  the  Catholic  Church.  Her  first 
published  poems  appeared  in  1880  in  various  local  papers;  and  about  1884  she  became  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  Are  Maria,  a  Catholic  magazine,  published  weekly  at  Notre 
Dame,  Ind. 


GROWING  OLDER. 


Growing  older ! — drawing  nearer 

To  the  first  entrancing  sight 
Of  the  Saviour's  matchless  beauty, 

In  his  own  fair  realms  of  light. 
Growing  older! — thoughts  of  glad 
ness 

Gild  the  hours  as  swift  they  fly, 
Chasing  every  cloud  of  sadness 

From  the  Christian's  sunset  sky. 

Growing  older!— daily,  hourly, 

Learning  more  our  need  of  Him 
In  the  splendor  of  whose  presence 

E'en  the  noonday  sun  grows  dim. 
Leaning  more  in  dear  dependence 

On  the  sinner's  faithful  Friend, 
Casting  every  care  upon  Him 

Who  has  loved  us  to  the  end. 


Year  by  year  the  milestones  lessen 

As  our  birthdays  come  and  go, 
Ploughing  furrows  on  smooth  fore 
heads, 

Flecking  raven  locks  with  snow. 
Growing  older !— Blessed  Master ! 

Lifting  trembling  hands  in  prayer ; 
Come  we  oftener  to  Thine  altar, 

Sure  to  find  Thee  waiting  there. 

Growing  older ! — feebly  groping 

Through    that  mystic,   shadowy 

vale 
Leading  unto  Death's  dark  portal. 

Where  the  flesh  and  spirit  fail. 
Aching  hearts  and  wearied  bodies, 

Battle-scarred  and  travel-worn, 
In  the  sleep  of  Christ's  beloved 

Wait  the  Resurrection  morn. 


WILLIAM  W.  II  AWKES.—  SARAH  W.  S.  BERRY.  813 


hitne 


Born  in  Portland,  1857,  and,  while  in  the  High  School  of  that  city,  wrote  songs  that 
were  set  to  music,  and  other  pieces.  Entered  Yale.  1875,  wrote  for  Yale  Literary  Maga 
zine  until  his  graduation  in  1879,  with  honors.  In  two  years  afterward  he  graduated 
from  the  Yale  Medical  School  and  was  elected,  on  competitive  examination,  Physician 
and  Surgeon  in  the  Connecticut  State  Hospital.  He  has  acquired  great  skill,  is  one  of 
the  four  visiting  surgeons  of  the  Hospital,  and  his  writings  now  are  chiefly  of  a  scientific 
character. 

THE  MOUNTAINEER. 

"  Tell  me,  is  the  cloud  of  even  "  Call  it  not  the  thunder  rolling, 

Heaving  up  the  western  sky?  Nor  the  mountain  furies'  roar; 

Turns  the  light  of  day  so  quickly  ?  But  the  night  wind  stoutly  beating, 

Is  the  weary  night  so  nigh  ?  Buffeting  the  outer  door. 

Ah!  I  hear  the  mountain  torrent,  That  is  not  a  swell  of  voices, 

Leaping  to  the  glen  below,  But  the  sighing  of  the  tire. 

Is  my  father  coming,  mother?  Then  be  quiet,  child,  and  slumber, 

What  I  dread  I  do  not  know."  For  thou  canst  not  hear  thy  sire.'* 

"  Yes,  the  diy  to  dirkuass  turneth,   "  But  the  yule  upon  the  hearth-stone 

(So  the  will  of  Heaven  please,)  Has  the  great  heart  of  the  oak; 

But  the  torrent  that  thou  hearest      To  the  gasping  chimney  sighing, 

Is  the  crispy  mountain  breeze.  Breathes  its  spirit  out  in  smoke. 

And  thy  cloud  is  bold  Mon  Dena,       See,  a  splendor  greets  my  vision, 

Doughty  guardian  of  the  west.—       Far  surpassing  earthly  day! 
Trust,  thy  father  yet  returneth;         And  a  soul  of  music  calls  me 

Hope,  my  child,  lie  still  and  rest."     Irresistibly  away. 

"Speak!  Is  that  the  thunder  pealing,  But  the  widowed  and  the  childless 

Or  a  knocking  at  the  door,  Wept  alone  the  weary  hours,  [lands 

Hark!    I  feel  the  highland  quiver     While  the  tempest,heights  and  wood- 

As  I  never  felt  before.  Told  of  terror-chilling  powers. 

Open,  mother,  fling  the  guard-  way,   Yet  the  sun,  as  calmly  rising, 

Pierce  the  gloom  of  midnight  skies;    O'er  the  storied  highlands  shone 
For  I  hear  a  flood  of  voices.  —  On  a  wrecked  and  gorged  valley 

Open,  for  my  father  cries!1'  And  an  avalanche  alone. 


mh  jjfttyter  jjtuvgtr 


Sarah  Webster  (Sawyer)  Berry,  born  in  Portland  and  daughter  of  Capt.  Abel  Sawyer; 
married  Stephen  Berry,  in  18G3  She  wrote  several  operettas  which  were  brought  out  at 
City  Hall,  after  the  great  fire,  for  the  purpose  of  purchasing  the  new  lot  for  the  New 
Jerusalem  Church  on  New  High  Street  and  which  were  so  successful  that  more  than  the 
needed  amount  was  raised.  The  selections  given  below  are  from  the  '  Snow  Flake." 

SONG  OF  THE  SNOW  FAIRIES. 

AIR—  "IL  TROVATORE." 

O  here's  to  Saint  Nicholas,  Saint  of  the  day! 

O  long  may  he  flourish  —  for  ever  and  aye, 

And  be  dear  Old  Santy  to  millions  unborn, 

As  to  millions  he's  been  in  the  years  that  are  gone. 


814  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


O  here's  to  Saint  Nicholas!  long  may  he  ride 
O'er  house-tops  by  night,  round  the  earth  far  and  wide, 
While  the  jingle  of  bells  and  the  prance  of  rein-deer 
Give  proof  to  the  wakeful  that  Santa  is  near. 

O  here's  to  Saint  Nicholas!  here's  to  his  pack, 

For  as  full  as  it  goes,  it  conies  empty  back; 

And  children  are  laughing  in  merry  delight; 

Young  hearts  are  made  glad,  and  young  eyes  are  made  bright. 

O  Santy,  dear  Santy,  so  merry  and  round, 

Long,  long  may  your  kind  heart  be  cheered  with  the  sound ; 

For  sweeter  than  all  the  most  kindly  applause 

Is  God  bless  our  Santy !  our  good  Santa  Claus ! 


PITY  THE  WANDERERS. 
Pity  the  wanderers,  homeless  and  poor, 
Seeking  for  shelter  and  food  at  your  door, 
The  storm  rages  high  and  the  wind  whistles  loud, 
And  snow  drifts  pile  up  the  long  narrow  road. 
O  pity  my  poor  little  brother,  for  why 
Do  they  leave  us  out  here  in  the  cold  storm  to  die  ? 

Pity  my  brother,  I've  held  him  so  tight, 

All  through  the  wild  storm  of  this  pitilessjnight, 

Yet  all  I  can  do,  the  cruel  wind  whirls 

And  tangles  and  tosses  my  own  darling's  curls. 

O  pity  us,  children,  don't  turn  us  away, 

We  '11  wander  again  as  soon  as  'tis  day. 

O  pity  us,  children,  for  little  you  know 

How  blinded  we  are  by  the  fast  driving  snow; 

But  Frankie  is  patient  and  tries  not  to  cry, 

Though  the  tear  trembles  cold  in  his  little  blue  eye. 

O  children,  take  pity,  O  pity  the  poor, 

The  half -frozen  children  that  beg  at  your  door. 


i£/  ^Jordan. 


Israel  Jordan  was  born  in  Casco,  Me.,  Dec.  7,  1862,  and  is  a  graduate  of  Bates  College. 
He  is  a  contributor  of  spirited  and  finely-finished  poems  to  the  «olumns  of  the  Sew  Eng 
land  Magazine  and  Youth's  Companion. 


THE  ROYAL  HEIR. 

"  And  if  children,  then  heirs." 
To  the  woodland,  to  the  wold, 

To  the  downward  dashing  stream, 
To  Orion's  belt  of  gold, 

To  the  sunset's  purple  gleam, 


CLARENCE  BLENDON  BUELEIGH.  815 


To  the  calm  and  restful  bliss 
Found  in  all  tilings  pure  and  fair, — 

Child,  no  dream-told  tale  is  this, — 
Thou,  forsooth,  art  royal  heir. 

To  the  tall,  crow-cradling  pine, 

To  the  river's  silver  maze, 
To  the  Christmas  hearth-fire's  shine, 

To  the  honey-making  days, 
To  the  harebell  on  the  peak, — 

O  sweet  sign!    Love  walks  e'en  there, 
To  affection  none  can  speak, 

Child,  thou  art  the  royal  heir. 

To  the  tales  of  ancient  times, 

To  the  mystery  of  life, 
To  the  sympathetic  chimes, 

To  a  part  in  kingly  strife, 
To  a  soul  unsoiled  by  sin, 
To  the  Ear  that  answers  prayer, 
Though  low- voiced,  amid  life's  din, — 

Child,  thou  art  the  royal  heir. 


(j^hrtnit  jjlmdon 


C.  B.  Burleigh,  son  of  Hon.  Edwin  C.  Burleigh,  was  born  in  Linneus,  Me.,  Nov.  1,  1864. 
While  at  the  New  Hampton  (N.  H.)  Literary  Institution,  1878,  he  began  his  newspaper 
work  as  a  correspondent.  In  1883  he  founded  the  Hamptonian,  a  school  magazine,  still 
published.  Graduated  at  New  Hampton  in  1883,  and  from  Bowdoin  College  in  June, 


1887,  winning  the  lirst  prize  for  prose,  and  the  second  prize  for  poetry,  offered  by  the 

"     r.     In  his  S 

ving  c 
was  on  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Sea  Shell,  a  society  paper  at  Old  Orchard,  and,  later,  was 


,  , 

Bowdoin  Orient,  of  which  paper  he  was  at  one  time  chief  editor.    In  his  Senior  year  he 
won  the  first  Brown  prize  for  extemporaneous  composition.    After  leaving  college,  he 


offered  a  place  on  the  staff  of  the  Lowell  Afail,  but,  purchasing  a  share  in  the  Kennebec 
Journal,  entered  upon  active  duty  as  one  of  its  editors.  He  married  Miss  Sarah  P. 
Quimby,  of  North  Sandwich,  N.  H.,  Nov.  24,  1887. 


MY  QUEEN. 

Let  poets  sing  of  beauty,  Who  dwells  amid  the  quiet 

Red  lips  and  laughing  eyes;  Of  a  little  farm-house  gray, 

And  fairy  forms  whose  queenly  grace  Whence  Puritan  simplicity 

Description  quite  defies;  Has  never  passed  away. 
Of  the  mazes  of  the  ball-room, 

And  the  music  of  guitars,  My  queen  has  nature's  beauty, 

And  the  graces  of  the  maidens  And  a  heritage  of  health, 

Who  have  opulent  papas.  To  me  of  far  more  value, 

Than  any  papa's  wealth; 

I  care  not  what  the  poets  do,  She  may  not  be  "accomplished," 

My  rural  muse,  I  ween,  But  she  has  an  honest  heart 

Shall  tell  the  simple  virtues  Unskilled  in  all  the  coquetry 

Of  another  kind  of  queen,  Of  diplomatic  art. 


816 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Then  chant  the  graces  of  your  queen,   And  let  us  drink  long  life  to  both, 
Her  elegance  and  wealth,  In  sparkling  claret's  foam; 

And  I  will  sing  the  praise  of  mine,      Your  queen  may  make  society, 
Her  innocence  and  health.  My  queen  will  make  a  home. 


A  MO. 


".I  love,"  the  radiant  maiden  said. 

The  young  man  gave  a  start; 
A  thousand  fancies  tilled  his  mind, 

He  clasped  her  to  his  heart. 


It  seemed  to  his  bewildered  sense 
As  if  'twere  all  a  dream; 

But  as  he  pressed  her  closer  still 
She  only  said,  "ice  cream."" 


^Miss  Adalena  F.  Dyer  whose  pen-name  is  "  Saturnia,"  was  born  in  Cape  Elizabeth,  in 
1857.  and  has  always  lived  at  the  Dyer  homestead  which  has  been  in  the  family  during 
six  generations.  As  an  author  she  is  well  known  to  the  readers  of  the  Portland  Tran 
script  &nd.  other  leading  literary  journals,  and  does  not  need  an  extended  notice.  In 
addition  to  her  literary  work,  Miss  Dyer  has  gathered  an  herbarium  of  som«  450  speci 
mens,  mostly  of  Maine  growth.  Her  songs  show  great  b3:iutyof  thought  and  grace  of 
expression. 


PUTTING  UP  THE  BAPtS. 


When  the  brier  shuts  her  eye, 

And  the  sunset  wine 
Turns  to  dull  lees  in  the  sky, 

Then  the  grazing  kine 
Used  to  wend  their  homeward  way 

Through  the  daisy  stars, 
Leaving  me,  a  little  maid, 

Putting  up  the  bars. 


And  he  said  our  lives  would  be 

Free  from  fret  and  jars, 
If  Love  shut  all  discords  out, 

Putting  up  the  bars. 

But  I  lost  his  helping  hand, 

And  the  world  grew  gray,      [band 
As  when  the  storm-clouds'    sombre 

Hides  the  blue  of  day. 
Thus  a  pathway  walked  alone 

Mem'ry  sadly  mars; 
For  we  cannot  banish  thougJtt, 

Putting  up  the  bars. 


Still  the  spirit  of  those  days 


Pleasant  little  dreams  were  mine, 

Born  of  summer  air; 
Castles  neither  change  nor  time 

Ever  could  impair. 
When  in  after  years  I  strayed 

'Neath  the  new-born  stars, 
Stronger,  firmer  hands  helped  mine,      Ever  dwells  with  me, 

Putting  up  the  bars.  Walking  all  the  hidden  \vays 

God  alone  can  see; 
Through  the  spikes  of  meadow-sweet  And  the  old  love  steadily  burns;  — 

Wound  our  peaceful  way,  Though  it  leaves  but  scars, 

Where  the  freckled  lilies  greet  1  am  weak  to  shut  it  out 

Summer's  ardent  ray;  Putting  up  the  bars. 


ARTHUR  MERRILL  STACY.  817 


trthnr  Jtemll   jttactt. 

' 


This  author  was  born  in  Augusta,  Me.,  in  1857,  and  died  suddenly  in  that  city,  in  1882. 
He  was  educated  in  Augusta  and  at  Brockton,  Mass.,  and  entered  the  Theological  School 
at  Canton,  X.  Y.,  but  was  obliged  to  abandon  his  chosen  profession  on  account  of  fail 
ing  health.  Beginning  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was,  until  his  death,  a  contributor  to 
various  papers  and  juvenile  magazines,  in  both  prose  and  verse,  and  won  one  of  six  prizes 
for  a  story.  Fifty-two  of  his  poems  have  been  published  in  book  form  under  the  title 
"  The  .Miser's  Dream,  and  Other  Poems,"  and  a  story  in  book  form,  -"  Edward  Earle,  a 
Romance."  For  seven  years  he  battled  with  disease,  and  no  one  but  himself  knew  how 
much  he  suffered  or  lamented  over  his  blighted  prospects  for  usefulness  and  honorable 
distinction  in  his  chosen  calling.  ______ 

"WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME." 
Some  men  I  know,  they  may  be  few,   I  knew  a   fair   young   maid   named 

So  bold  as  e'en  to  claim,  SNOW, 

And  even  to  say,  as  oft  they  do,  (She  married  a  live  COLE  !) 

There  's  much  within  a  name,  Who  was  as  bright  and  full  of  warmth 
And  really  think  it  is  the  name  As  any  living  soul! 

That  gives  the  weight  alone  ;  Another  one  whose  name  was  SWKET 

As  though  a  man  would  heavier  be       Caused  every  one  to  fear  her; 

Because  his  name  was  STOXE.         For  she  had  so  harsh  a  temper 

No  suitor  dared  go  near  her. 
But  far  from  this  it  seems  to  me, 

And  I  will  show  to  you,  A  man  who  bore  tlie  name  of  WRIGHT 

With  words  that  cannot  plainer  be,       Was  always  in  the  wrong; 

That  such  thoughts  are  untrue:      An(l  a  weaker  man  I  never  saw 
That  far  more  often  '  t  is  the  case,          Than  O11«  whose  name  was  STRONG. 

(And  e'en  'mong  men  of  fame,)  A  m  m  who  owned  the  name  of  WISE 
For  a  man  to  have  a  nature  Could  neither  read  nor  write; 

Right  opposite  his  name  !  And  a  foolish  boy  who  drowned  him 

self 
I  knew  a  man  whose  name  was  HEAD,     Was  always  known  as  BRIGHT. 

That  had  no  brains  at  all;  A  fleshlegs  hypochonclli 

And  one  who  weighed  two  hundred      No  fatfcer  than  a  rQp^ 

pounds,  Whose   mind  was  filled  with  deep 

Told  me  his  name  was  SMALL.  despair 

A  child  was  born  that  had  no  feet         Disgraced  t'he  name  of  IIopF, 

To  carry  it  about;  Am,tlier    ma]]    whom    mm 

And  yet  he  bore  the  name  of  FOOTE,  o 

As  if  to  -  help  him  out."  The  slowest  snail  could  catch  ; 

There  was  a  man  whom  men  called  While  SLOWMA*>  with  his  rapid  gait, 
LOVE  Won  every  walking  match. 

Who  hated  everything;  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  LAMB, 

A  fleshy  man  whose  name  was  BIRD      Who  killed  an  only  child; 

Was  never  known  to  sing;  But  love  to  see  a  LYON'S  face, 

A  lawless  rake  was  surely  RICH,  With  features  fair  and  mild. 

Yet  never  had  a  cent;  And  WOLF  when  he  knocks  at  my 

Another  man  was  always  POOR,  door, 

Though  he'd  two  fortunes  spent!       I  always  let  him  in; 


818  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


For,  pure  and  gentle  as  a  dove,  While  one  was  called  an  ILLMAN 

He  ne'er  was  known  to  sin.  Whom  no  one  dared  assail. 

And  thus  they  go ;  an  odd-styled  set, 

I   once,  by  chance,  while   traveling    Where  few  are  named  aright;  [day, 
West,  The  BLACKS  and  BKOWXS  are  light  as 

Did  meet  a  "  STARK  and  Son/'  The  WHITES  are  dark  as  night. 

And  these  men  were  so  very  dull,      And  all  who  read  this  poem  through, 

They  could  'nt  see  a  pun.  And  ponder  on  the  same, 

Another  man  was  GOODENOUOH,        Must  feel  there 's  truth  in  what  I  say  : 
Who  spent  his  life  in  jail;  "  There 's  little  in  a  name." 


jjell  Bearing. 


OT?  ,18*  £y  fas  born  in  Orono-  Me-.  March  7,  1858,  and  has  always  lived  in  that  town. 
Sne  lett  the  High  School  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  taught  a  little,  and  was  married  when 
eighteen.  Her  husband  died  when  she  was  two-and-twenty,  leaving  her  with  an  infant 
boy  and  a  little  girl  of  two  years.  Four  years  ago  this  lady  became  an  invalid  from  spi 
nal  difficulties,  and  for  more  than  a  year  has  not  spoken  aloud.  To  relieve  the  monot 
ony  of  invalidism  she  began  to  write  for  the  press,  and  her  articles  have  appeared  in  the 
Bangor  Whig  and  Courier,  Quiet  Hours,  and  other  State  publications.  She  is  now  at 
•vrork  on  a  Persian  legend  of  considerable  length. 


A  CHANGELESS  SONG. 
A  little  child  all  undefiled, 

Turned  from  her  careless  play, 
To  gather  flowers  that  bloomed  'neath  showers 

Of  dainty,  laughing  May. 
Her  baby  glee  was  good  to  see: 

Her  tiny,  dimpled  feet 
Danced  lightly  o'er  the  grass-grown  floor  — 

A  bird  o'erhead  sang,  "  Sweet." 

But  when  at  length,  in  fullest  strength, 

The  summer  warmly  smiled, 
A  far-off  gleam  of  some  strange  dream 

Had  changed  the  wond'ring  child. 
She  looked  on  now  with  troubled  brow, 

All  things  seemed  incomplete; 
A  restless  world  before  her  whirled, 

Yet  still  the  bird  sang,  "Sweet." 

Then  came  the  King  of  everything; 

Naught  knew  she  now  apart 
From  one  whose  voice  made  her  rejoice, 

Woke  echoes  in  her  heart. 
Alack!  too  soon  o'er  this  bright  noon 

Night  came  with  tear-bathed  feet. 
The  world  grew  old ;  her  heart  grew  cold, 

While  still  the  bird  sang,  "Sweet." 


HARRIET  EUDORA  PRITCI1ARD  ARNOLD.  819 


Then  Angel  Death,  with  icy  breath, 

Laid  on  her  lips  a  kiss — 
"  Wouldst  thou  be  free  ?    Come,  soul,  and  see," 

He  said,  "  unending  bliss ! " 
The  grasses  wave  above  her  grave, 

White  stones  mark  head  and  feet; 
Hearts  standing  nigh,  weep,  sob  and  sigh, 

E'en  now  he  sings,  "  T  is  sweet." 

It  must  belong,  this  changeless  song, 

To  all  that's  real  in  life, 
And  what  seems  death  is  but  the  breath 

Of  change  to  peace,  from  strife. 
Your  joyous  strain,  your  blithe  refrain, 

Is  true— O  bird,  repeat!— 
Pain  lasts  a  day;  joy  lives  for  aye; 

Love,  Life  and  Death  are  sweet. 


jjarritt  ^ndorn  jjriithxrd  Arnold. 

Harriet  Eudora  Pritchard,  the  only  child  of  a  New  England  clergyman,  Avas  born  in 
Killingly,  Ct.,  in  1858.  When  very  young  she  removed  with  her  parents  to  Maine,  and 
the  greater  portion  of  an  uneventful  life  has  been  spent  in  Portland  and  vicinity.  Miss 
Pritchard  wrote  little  or  nothing  until  1882,  when  a  lingering  illness,  and  the  leisure 
thereby  afforded,  developed  a  latent  but  hitherto  unencouraged  desire  for  work  of  a  lit 
erary  nature.  Since  then  poems  and  short  sketches,  bearing  the  signature  of  H.  E.  P. 
and  Harriet  E.  Pritchard,  have  frequently  appeared  in  the  weeklies  and  magazines  of 
New  England.  In  1886.  having  in  a  great  measure  recovered  health,  Miss  Pritchard  was 
united  in  marriage  with  Ernest  Warner  Arnold,  of  Providence,  K.  I.,  in  which  city  she 
now  resides. 


A  LITTLE  WHILE. 
A  little  while,  O  heart,  a  little  while— 

A  little  while  to  suffer  and  be  strong. 

A  little  while  the  clamorous,  mad  throng 
Of  hungry  human  vultures  to  beguile. 
A  little  while,  O  trembling  lips,  to  smile, 

A  little  while  to  play  your  petty  part; 

A  little  while  to  veil  this  weary  heart, 
To  sing,  to  laugh,  to  jest  a  little  while. 
A  little  while,  and  sunset's  molten  gold, 

Yon  shining  length  of  river  and  the  fair 

Green,  tender  tints  the  spring-decked  valleys  wear, 
This  darkened  vision  shall  no  more  behold. 

A  little  while,  O  soul,  to  do  and  bear; 

A  little  while  for  penance  and  for  prayer. 


RECOMPENSE. 

How  many  things  are  clear  to  us  to-day, 
That  yesterday  we  saw  through  mist  of  tears ; 


H20  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


How  many  things  are  better  than  our  fears, 

What  sunbeams  through  our  self-wrought  shadows  play! 

Not  one  fair  earnest  hope  is  laid  away 

Within  its  shroud  of  weary,  wasted  years, 

But  from  the  tangled  grass  above  it  peers, 

Full  soon,  some  blossom  redolent  of  May. 

We  stretch  beseeching  hands  to  heaven  and  pray 

That  this,  or  that,  be  granted,  whilst  we  plead; 

We  turn  with  empty  hands  from  prayer  and  say, 

"We  are  unheard,  forgotten,  lost  indeed!" 

When  lo !  within  our  reach  some  priceless  gift, 

For  which  imploring  palms  we  dared  not  lift. 


Frank  H.  Pease  was  born  in  East  Boston,  Mass.,  July  16,  1858,  and  moved,  at  the  age 
of  two  years,  with  his  parents,  to  the  old  South  Parsonsfield  homestead,  where  he  still 
claims  residence.  Related  on  his  mother's  side  to  the  late  David  Barker  and  Hon.  Llew 
ellyn  Barker,  of  Bangor.  Entered  Bowdoin  in  1878,  and  after  remaining  there  one  year, 
taught  school  a  year,  and  entered  the  Sophomore  class  at  Tufts  in  1880,  graduating  in  the 
class  of  1883.  He  is  now  Principal  of  the  Sawyer  School,  Dover.  N.  H.  Mr.  Pease  was 
for  two  years  local  editor  of  the  Tuf Ionian.  In  the  summer  of  1881  he  took  a  prize  for 
the  best  translation  of  English  into  Latin.  Several  poems  from  his  pen  have  appeared 
in  the  Portland  Frangcrlpi  over  the  nom  deplume  of  "  Barry  Lytle." 


HYMN. 

Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  first  centennial  of  Parsonsfield,  Aug.  29,  1885. 

In  the  broad  forest's  trackless  wild, 

With  ready  hand  and  hearty  cheer, 
Our  fathers  cleared  their  rugged  farms, — 

Their  humble  homes  they  builded  here. 

How  changed  the  time !    How  changed  the  scene 

Where  once  their  sturdy  axes  rung! 
Above  the  forest's  gloomy  shade, 

A  busy  town  to  life  has  sprung. 

In  these  fair  fields,  first  tilled  by  them, 
With  grateful  hearts  we  sing  our  lay, 

That  memory  may  their  worth  preserve, 
When  we,  like  them,  have  passed  away. 

O  meadows  green!     O  friendly  wood! 

Each  happy  bird  and  murmuring  rill, 
Each  breeze  that  sweeps  through  sighing  pines 

Our  restless  souls  doth  sweetly  thrill. 


PA  RK  EE  B  It  A  DB  UK  Y  DA  VIS.  821 


Here  first  we  saw  the  light  of  day, 
Our  lisping  prayer  we  nightly  said; — 

On  yonder,  sacred,  silent  spot, 
Lies  many  a  loved  one,  long  since  dead. 

O  Faith,  that  crowned  our  sires  of  old, 

Be  with  us  in  each  coming  year, 
While  others  come  again  to  find 

Their  joys,  their  hopes,  and  memories  here. 


jjnrhw 


Born  in  Winn,  Me.,  Jan.  11,  1859,  and  when  quite  young  removed  to  Lee.  His  father 
was  a  farmer  and  lumberman,  and  a  great  part  of  our  author's  life  has  been  spent  in  the 
woods  of  Maine.  He  completed  the  course,  however,  at  Lee  Normal  Academy,  and 
shortly  after  graduating  went  South  and  West,  spending  nearly  a  year  in  Florida.  Texas, 
and  New  Mexico.  Since  returning  to  Maine  he  has  been,  alternately,  farmer,  lumber 
man  and  school-teacher.  For  the  past  year  he  has  been  employed  as  teacher  in  the  Lee 
Normal  School.  Most  of  his  poems  have  been  printed  in  the  State  papers. 

THE  BONNY  WOODS  OF  MAINE. 

Let  others  sing  of  sunny  lands,  From  where  Atlantic  casts  her  foam 

Where  sultry  breezes  blow  Upon  Old  Orchard's  strand, 

Through  orange  trees  and  olive  To  where  Katahdin  lifts  her  head 

groves,  Above  our  forest  land, 

And  limpid  waters  flow;  Are  hearts  as  true  as  earth  has 

Of  fair  Italia'  s  sunlit  strand,  known, 

Or  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Spain;  And  hands  without  a  stain 

But  dearer  far  than  these  to  me  That  Point  with  Joyous  pride  to-day 

Are  the  bonny  woods  of  Maine.  To  the  grand  old  woods  of  Maine. 

And  though  the  wealth  of  lands  re- 
Though  rough  and  tangled  they  mote 

may  be,  May  please  the  eye  the  best, 

And  bound  with  ice  and  snow,        Yet,  O  within  the  woods  of  Maine, 
Yet  hearts  have  here  a  quicker  throb,      '  T  is  here  the  heart  can  rest; 

And  cheeks  a  brighter  glow  ;  And  though  her  sons  may  wander  far, 

And  eyes  put  on  a  braver  look  By  mountain  land  or  plain, 

With  health  in  every  vein—  Their  hearts  turn  back  with  longing 

True  Freedom  lives  among  us  here  still 

Within  the  woods  of  Maine.  To  the  bonny  woods  of  Maine. 


ittinm&on. 


Miss  Julia  M.  Williamson  was  born  in  New  Sharon,  Me.,  March  13,  1859,  and  at  the  age 
of  twelve  wrote  a  poem  which  appeared  in  the  Farmington  Chronicle  a  year  later. 
From  this  time  forward  she  has  contributed  to  many  of  the  State  papers,  and,  of  late, 


822  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


to  the  leading  journals  and  magazines  of  the  country.  The  Cottage  Hearth  Magazine 
Boston,  and  Gttns  of  Poetry,  New  York,  have  published  some  of  her  hest  pieces.  A 
unique  poem  from  her  pen,  "  Tobogganing,"  is  soon  to  appear  in  Our  Little  Ones.  Miss 
Williamson  has  issued  two  volumes  of  verse;  the  first  was  entitled  "  The  Choir  of  the 
Year,"  and  the  second,  published  when  she  was  nineteen,  appeared  under  her  pen-name 
"  Lura  Bell."  She  removed  to  Augusta  in  1881,  and  resides  in  a  beautiful  locality  called 
"Maple  Knoll." 


FAME. 

A  rose-tree  blossomed  beside  the  way 
From  day  to  day  in  sun  and  shower; 

But  never  a  traveler,  grave  or  gay, 
Had  stopped  to  notice  the  fragrant  flower. 

An  artist  came  to  the  spot,  and  lo! 

His  soul  was  lit  with  the  splendid  flame ; 
And  on  the  canvas  he  caused  to  grow 

The  rose,  but  he  gave  it  a  noble  name. 

The  odorless  flower  in  his  studio  hung, 
And  they  who  had  seen  the  wayside  rose 

Remembered  it  then,  its  praise  was  sung, 
No  longer  it  grew  in  unsought  repose. 

There  were  many  to  pluck  the  blossoms  then, 
There  were  many  to  waste  them  in  heated  halls; 

For  such  are  the  reckless  ways  of  men 
There 's  none  to  care  when  a  rose-leaf  falls. 

In  the  market-place  a  singer  stood 
And  sang  to  the  listeners  a  song  of  life, 

But  none  of  the  multitude  understood 
There  were  none  to  care  in  the  busy  strife. 

The  weary  singer  turned  aside, 
But  one  was  there  to  whom  the  song 

Rang  like  a  trumpet  far  and  wide, 
And  wakened  a  memory  deep  and  long. 

A  peer  was  he,  and  his  power  was  great, 
He  sang  to  the  listeners  that  song  again; 

And  the  eager  multitude  scarce  could  wait 
For  the  singer's  voice  in  the  sweet  refrain. 

The  market-place  singer  might  revel  then 
In  heart-songs  heard  and  trilled  by  all, 

For  such  are  the  reckless  ways  of  men 
They  heed  not  the  rose  till  its  petals  fall. 


EGBERT  EEXDALE.  823 


jjiobert  jjiexthh. 

Robert  Rexdale,  one  of  the  youngest  and  most  promising  literary  workers  of  Portland 
was  born  of  English  parents  March  26,  1859.  Attended  school  in  "  the  city  by  the  sea  '* 
until  his  thirteenth  year;  then  apprenticed  to  the  printer's  trade,  acquiring  by  keen 
insight  a  knowledge  of  newspaper  work,  arid  becoming  self-educated  by  nocturnal  study. 
"The  Roman  Fathers,"  a  fresh,  vigorous  prose  article,  published  in  1880,  was  his  first 
contribution  to  literature.  Says  an  excellent  critic  :  "Mr.  Rexdale  has  natural  gifts- 
is  one  of  the  spontaneous  singers.  In  prose  he  is  peculiarly  happy,  and  his  stories  are 
marked  by  brilliant  and  sympathetic  power."  His  mythological  poem  "Transit  of 
Venus,"  contributed  to  the  Portland,  Trort  script  in  1882,  received  high  recognition 
from  the  press.  Says  one  writer:  "It  is  richly  suggestive,  melodious,  and  strong  as 
waves  of  ocean  breaking  on  some  wide-curved  beach."  In  1885  he  entered  journalism 
as  assistant  editor  of  the  Portland  Sunday  Times  A  holiday  volume  "Drifting 
Songs  and  Sketches,"  was  brought  out  in  1886-87  by  W.  H.  Stevens  &  Co.  o'f  Portland 
Mr.  Rexdale  in  1888  entered  the  lists  as  a  novelist,  and  is  the  author  of  "Saved  by  the 
Sword,"  a  book  of  the  light  and  romantic  order  written  in  a  popular  vein. 


DRIFTING. 

0  fairest  maid  of  rarest  days, 
Pomona's  child  with  golden  tresses! 

1  loiter  in  thy  sylvan  ways, 

My  heart  is  warm  with  thy  caresses. 
And  o'er  again,  as  in  a  dream, 

I  voice  the  words  the  spell  is  wreathing, 
As  in  the  reeds  beside  the  stream 

Pandean  pipes  are  lowly  breathing. 

I  think  of  one  whose  starry  eyes, 

And  laughter  through  the  woodland  ringing, 
And  shy  caress,  and  tender  sighs, 

Attuned  the  poet's  heart  to  singing. 
And,  like  Ausonian  king  of  old, 

I  listen  to  the  wood-nymph's  pleading, 
While  this  poor  form  of  human  mould 

Plods  sadly  after  fancy's  leading. 

0  river  rippling  to  the  sea, 

Thy  silver  waters,  softly  stealing 
In  shadowed  beauty  o'er  the  lea, 

Awake  the  slumb'rous  chords  of  feeling. 
And  on  thy  waves  of  rosy  light, 

Seen  in  my  boyhood's  happy  vision, 

1  'm  drifting  from  the  shores  of  night, 

To  isles  of  rest  in  realms  elysian. 


WHITTIER. 

Awake,  O  lyre!  thy  tender  rhythmic  throng, 
And  bid  them  pause  attendant  to  my  theme ! 
For  lo !  to-night,  above  the  heights  of  dream, 
I  watch  a  barque  upon  the  deathless  stream, 
And  list  the  boatman's  song. 


824  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


O  gentle  Bard !  rest  on  thy  weary  oars, 
Xor  longing  turn  thee  toward  the  silent  land! 
Too  soon  the  tide  lifts  to  its  golden  strand, 
Where  wait  for  thee  the  vanished  poet  band, 
Upon  immortal  shores. 

Of  all  whose  song  has  thrilled  our  western  isle, 
Thou  art  the  last  and  dearest  to  remain ! 
Thy  voice  still  rings  with  Freedom's  grand  refrain, 
And  we  respond  to  each  quick-pulsing  strain, 
Devoid  of  earthly  guilei 

O  starry  gems  that  deck  the  brow  of  Xight, 
Veil  not  thine  orbs  in  yonder  azure  spheres! 
A  life  as  pure  as  chaste  Diana's  tears 
Drifts  softly  down  the  ripples  of  the  years, 
Beneath  thy  tender  light! 


AMONG  THE  SHADOWS. 

Within  a  city's  throbbing  heart, 

Where  life  is  bright  and  gay, 
There  nestles,  from  the  world  apart, 

A  graveyard  old  and  gray.* 

O'er  mossy  walls  the  ivy  falls,  But  now  the  evening  shadow  creeps 
In  slender  sprays  of  green,  Across  the  harbor  bar, 

And  silently  the  lichen  crawls  And  o'er  the  tranquil  azure  deeps 
The  narrow  mounds  between.  Climbs  up  a  lonely  star. 

Here  oft,  in  childhood's  early  hours,  O  angel  Xight!  thy  dewy  wing 

My  footsteps  fondly  strayed,  Enfolds  the  spirit's  dream, 

From  pleasure's  warm,  sunshiny  And  to  the  fevered  heart  you  bring 

Into  the  realms  of  shade,  [bowers,  A  balm  from  Kedron's  stream. 

And  pensively  my  fancy  roamed         The  subtle  web  that  fancy  weaves 
Adown  the  years  to  be,  Lies  broken  on  the  tomb, 

Where  fairy  castles,  jewel-domed,       While  in  the  path  of  rustling  leaves 
Gleamed  through  the  mists  for  me.     I  wander  through  the  gloom. 


Daughter  of  a  former  editor  of  Zlon's  Advocate;  born  in  Portland,  Aug.  15,  1859, 
and  died  there  March  16,  1878.  Her  child-lite  was  very  beautiful;  she  was  quiet,  some 
what  reserved,  fond  of  reading,  and  delighted  in  flowers,  the  woods,  and  the  sea-shore, 
though  not  naturally  of  a  strong  constitution.  After  the  death  of  her  brother  and 
mother  she  became  a  member  of  the  First  Baptist  Church.  She  had  an  unusual  talent 


*The  old  Eastern  Cemetery,  Portland;  where  sleep  the  dead  captains  of  Longfellow's 
youth,  •'  in  their  graves  o'er-looking  the  tranquil  bay."— Compiler. 


MILLIE  COLCOED.— OLIVE  E.  DANA.  825 


for  Avriting  and  used  it  to  help  the  service  of  her  Master.  Tn  March,  1877,  Millie  had  a 
severe  hemorrhage  Irom  the  lungs,  and  for  sever:?!  weeks  her  life  hung  apparently  by  a 
mere  thread.  Alter  some  weeks'  confinement  the  scale  turned  in  her  favor,  and,  later, 
she  gained  sufficient  strength  to  spend  a  week  in  the  country,  but  the  disease  slowly  pro 
gressed,  ami  her  strength  wasted  away.  In  the  intervals  of  her  sickness  she  composed 
the  poems  which  have  been  collected  and  printed  in  a  dainty  volume,  entitled  "  For  Thy 
Name's  Sake,"  which  contains  a  tine  portrait,  taken  December,  1876.  Her  last  poem, 
"  The  Kiver,"  Avas  finished  about  ten  days  before  her  death.  Many  tributes  to  her  mem 
ory,  from  authors  of  established  repute,  appeared  after  her  decease.  Pure  in  heart, 
child-like  in  spirit,  and  earnestly  desiring  to  honor  her  Master,  she  herself  wras  honored 
•by. him  in  being  permitted  to  do  much  for  his  cause. 


WAITING. 

Where  the  white  cliffs  throw  their  slanting  shadows 
And  the  waves  roll  in  with  dash  and  roar, 

Still  and  patient,  in  the  sunset  glory, 
Sits  an  old  man  on  the  rocky  shore. 

At  his  feet  the  children  cluster  gaily, 
Looking  outward,  far  across  the  bay, — 

Tell  of  wondrous  ships  upon  the  ocean, 
Ships  that  they  shall  proudly  own  some  day. 

"Tell  us,"  cry  the  children's  eager  voices, 

"  Tell  us,  have  you  any  ships  at  sea  ? 
Will  they  bring  you,  some  day,  sailing  homeward, 

Gems  and  riches,  always  yours  to  be?" 

Then  the  old  man  answers  very  softly, 

"  There  is  one  for  which  I  daily  wait; 
Though  the  rest  have  foundered  with  their  fortunes, 

This  one  ship  will  come,  however  late. 

"She  will  bring  to  me  no  earthly  treasure, 
Nothing  that  shall  make  me  richer  here; 

But  will  take  me  to  a  fairer  country, 
And  each  night  I  pray  she  may  be  near." 

He  is  silent, — eager  wait  the  children, 
Looking  upward,  with  a  grave  surprise, 

Till  the  old  man's  eyes,  grown  dim  with  watching, 
Turn  once  more  toward  the  sunset  skies. 

People  passing  homeward  from  their  labor, 

Pause  upon  the  shore  and  pity  him; 
"Ah!  they  do  not  know,"  the  children  whisper, 

"He  is  waiting  till  his  ship  comes  in." 


mm. 

This  author  was  born  in  Augusta,  Dec.  24,  1859,  where  she  has  always  resided.  Gradu 
ated  from  the  High  School  in  that  city  in  1877,  and  in  the  same  year  began  to  write  for 
the  press.  Except  when  incapacitated  by  illness,  she  has  been  a  constant  contributor 
ever  since,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  to  many  of  the  literary  and  religious  publications. 


82(5  777 K  POE T8  OF  MA INE. 


Articles  on  home  topics  and  reviews,  biographical  sketches  and  short  stories,  have  flowed 
from  her  industrious  pen.  She  has  been  a  frequent  writer  to  the  columns  of  the  Journal 
of  Education,  the  Cottage  Hearth,  Good  Housekeeping,  Portland  Transcript,  Illus 
trated  Christian  Weekly,  etc.,  having  published  some  300  articles  since  her  literary 
career  began. 

LOVE  AND  SERVICE. 

Are  not  all  the  needs  that  beckon, 

And  the  duties  that  we  reckon 
Till  our  hands  are  weary,  and  our  hearts  are  sad, 

Roughened  stairs  for  our  surmounting, 

Looming  up  beyond  our  counting, 
Like  the  ladder  in  the  vision  Jacob  had  ? 

And  the  joys  our  lives  that  brighten, 

And  the  loves  our  loads  that  lighten, 
And  the  sweet  relationships  so  dear, 

Are  they  not  the  stairways  golden, — 

Like  the  wondrous  ladder  olden, — 
Over  which  the  footfalls  of  God's  love  we  hear? 


gdwin 


Edwin  B.  Lowe  was  born  in  Eastport,  Me.,  Jan.  1,  1860,  and  was  the  youngest  of  eight 
children.  His  father  was  a  ship  and  house  carpenter,  and  moved  to  Eastport  with  his 
parents,  from  Tarn  worth,  N.  H.,  when  a  child.  From  his  mother,  a  tender  sensitive 
Christian  woman,  Edwin  'inherits  his  great  love  for  nature,  poetry  and  romance.  His 
education  has  been  largely  self -acquired,  as  he  was  prevented  by  a  severe  trouble  from 
attending  school  after  his  sixteenth  year.  Mr  Lowe  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  press 
since  his  eighteenth  year,  and,  in  addition  to  literary  work,  has  occupied  the  position  of 
clerk  in  the  post-office  and  in  stores.  His  poems  and  stories  have  been  well  received. 


SOME  DAY. 
Some  day  the  road  we  're  traveling   Or  whether  rocks  the  way  did  fill, 

now  And  thistles  grew 

Will  cease  to  ascend,  Beneath  our  feet,  and  breezes  chill 

Some  day,  we  know  not  when  or  how,      About  us  blew. 
Will  come  its  end. 


The  long,  lone  waste  of  crooked  road      And  wonder  why 

O'er  which  our  feet  Sometimes  'twas  sunny,  sometimes 

Groped  blindly  oft,   when  no  light  black 

showed  As  midnight  sky. 

Which  side  to  keep. 
Will  all  be  left  behind  for  aye,  We  wil1  not  <luestion,  you  and  I, 

And  nevermore  About  the  Past> 

Our  weary  stumbling  feet  shall  stray  For  future  scenes  wil1  occu^ 

Its  pathways  o'er.  With  thouShts  ™™  vast. 

'T  will  matter  not  to  us  that  day,  Some  day  that  time  to  you  and  me 
Whether  we  sang  Must  come,  my  friend,— 

For  very  joy,  and  all  the  way  God  grant  that  we  may  ready  be 
Sweet  flowers  upsprang,  To  meet  the  end. 


FRANCES  ANNIE  GREGG.  827 


s  Jfnm*  < 

Miss  Frances  A.  Gregg  was  born  in  the  beautiful  and  romantic  town  of  Andover,  Me., 
in  1860.  Her  great  grandfather,  Rev.  Win.  Gregg,  (Congregationalist)  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth,  was  a  classmate  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  and  preached  at  one  time  atJCape  Eliza 
beth;  was  Principal  of  Limerick  Academy  several  years,  and  afterwards  removed  to 
Andover,  where  he  also  preached.  Both  her  grandfather  and  father  were  born  in  Port 
land.  Early  in  life  Miss  Gregg  r'emoved  to  Bucktield,  where  she  attended  the  High 
School,  also  the  Hebron  Academy.  Later,  she  removed  to  Andover,  where-  she  now 
resides  with  her  parents  on"  The  Pines'  Stock  Farm, "a  delightful  summer  resort  nestled 
among  pine-clad  mountains,  and  watered  by  the  lovely  Ellis  River.  Miss  Gregg's  poems, 
published  in  various  journals,  are  sprightly  and  melodious. 


THE  MERRY  OLD  SCHOOL-BELL. 

How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  old  Hebron, 

When  memory  fondly  recalls  them  to  mind! 
The  hills  and  the  valleys,  the  rocks  that  were  legion, 

And  every  loved  vision  with  brightness  enshrined; — 
The  teachers  so  patient,  rules  for  mirth  and  for  quiet, 

The  scholars  intent  to  improve  every  hour; 
The  church  and  the  chapel,  the  academy  by  it, 

And  e'en  the  old  school-bell,  the  friendship-bound  school-bell, 

The  merry  old  school-bell  which  hung  in  the  tower. 

That  merry  old  school-bell,  a  memory's  treasure! 

How  oft  hath  it  called  us  from  studies  away; 
To  meet  in  the  chapel  at  morn  was  the  pleasure, 

It  signalled  to  all  the  first  call  of  the  day. 
With  laughter  we've  clambered  from  stair-case  to  ladder, 

From  thence  to  the  belfry  to  rest  in  its  bower; 
To  view  the  gay  landscape,  just  tinted  with  madder, 

Enhanced  by  the  school-bell  which  hung  in  the  tower. 

The  time-covered  school-bell,  the  friendship-bound  school-bell, 

The  merry  old  school-bell  which  hung  in  the  tower. 

How  clear  were  its  tones  on  a  bright  Sabbath  morning; 
Its  echoes  resounding  through  valleys  and  hills ; 

So  restfully,  sweetly  it  seemed  to  be  calling, 
Imbued  with  the  calmness  the  Sabbath  instils. 

And  now,  far  away  from  the  scenes  of  my  school-days, 
Past  joys  dim  my  eyes,  as  in  sunshine  the  shower; 

And  memories,  ever  as  bright  as  the  sun's  rays, 
Envelope  the  school-bell  which  hung  in  the  tower, 
The  time-covered  school-bell,  the  friendship-bound  school-bell, 
The  merry  old  school-bell  which  hung  in  the  tower. 


828  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


H.  L.  Kooptnan  Avas  born  in  Freeport,  Me.,  July  1,  1860,  and  is  the  oldest  son  of  Charles 
Frederick  Koopman,  now  of  West  Koxbury,  Mass.,  a  Swede  of  Dutch  descent.  He  was 
brought  up  and  fitted  for  college  in  Freeport.  A.  B.,  Colby  University,  1880;  A.  M.,  1883. 
Taught  district  schools  in  Freeport  and  in  Claremont,  N.  H.;  Assistant,  Astor  Library, 
New  York  City,  1881-82;  Cataloguer,  Cornell  University  Library,  1883-84;  Columbia 
College  Library,  1884-85;  Rutgers  College  Library,  1885-86;  Library  of  the  University  of 
Vermont,  188G  to  date.  Began  writing  verse  at  fourteen.  First  printed  poem,  '  The  First 
Snow,"  written  in  1875,  was  published  in  the  rortldnd  Transcript.  Has  written  for 
other  periodicals,  ami  when  in  college  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Colby  Echo  and 
Oracle.  vHis  publications  in  book  form  are  "  The  Great  Admiral,"  "Ellen  Statira  Koop 
man:  A  Tribute  to  Her  Memory,"  "  Orestes,  a  Dramatic  Sketch,  and  other  poems." 


THE  CONSTITUTION. 
Our  frigate's  high  renown 

Shall  stem  the  tide  of  death, 
When  her  stars  have  drifted  back  to  the  sky, 

And  her  brazen  lips  are  a  breath. 

THE  SMALL  TO  THE  GREAT. 

Nay,  scorn  us  not,  ye  poets  throned  for  aye, 
Us  painful  singers  of  a  fleeting  day. 
We  have  our  worth;  we  din  the  world's  dull  ear 
With  song  until  men  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
Yet,  forced  to  listen,  heed  they  you,  not  us, 
And  so  our  low  fame  lifts  you  glorious. 

PRICELESS.  TEMPLES. 


Love  cannot  be  bought, 

Neither  hath  it  price; 
It  seeks  not,  and  is  given  unsought, 

A  glad  self-sacrifice. 


The  mighty  temples  built  of  yore 
Lacked  yet  the  roof  on  high; 

So  be  thy  soul  walled  round  about, 
But  open  to  the  sky. 


CHILDREN. 

A  world  without  any  children, — 
What  a  worn  old  world  it  would  be ! 

A  dreary  life  in  a  world  like  that 
Would  be  worse  than  death  to  me. 

Then  come,  pink  May-buds  of  children, 

With  opening  hearts  like  the  morn; 
There's  hope  for  earth  and  the  dwellers  of  earth, 

While  such  as  ye  are  born. 


J»«» 


nthr. 


Born  in  Auburn,  Me.,  Oct.  22,  18CO,  daughter  of  Rev.  Nathaniel  Butler,  D.  D.,  her 
mother  the  daughter  of  Judge  Stephen  A.  Emery.  The  family  moved  to  Camden,  Me. 
In  1870  the  family  removed  to  Alton,  111.,  returning  to  Maine  in  1873,  Dr.  Butler  having 


ELLEN  HAM  LIN  B  UTLEE.  829 

become  pastor  of  a  church  in  Bangor.  Miss  Butler  attended  a  ladies'  college  near  Chi 
cago;  Coburn  Classical  Institute,  at  Waterville,  where  she  gained  a  first  prize  for  a  poem. 
Graduating  at  the  Hallowell  Classical  Institute  in  1881,  she  was  three  years  a  teacher  at 
the  ladies'  college  near  Chicago,  and  one  year  at  the  Classical  Academy  at  Hallowell. 
Her  poems,  which  are  very  meritorious,  have  never  been  collected. 


THE  VOICE  OF  MAINE. 
Greece  in  her  day  of  power  saw, 

Amid  her  matchless  forms  of  stone, 
A  race,  by  nature's  happiest  law, 

More  perfect.     On  her  sea-swept  throne 
She  mourned  the  grace  of  which  they  died, 

And  wept  for  sterner  clay  again. 
Be  mine  the  nobler  Spartan  pride, 

Behold  my  sons— the  sons  of  Maine. 

Rome  strewed  the  streets  with  garlands,  when 

Her  legions  came  with  captive  bands. 
Those  were  the  days  of  mighty  men; 

But  those,  the  days  of  wasted  lands, 
Behold  my  warriors  come.     No  sound 

Of  wailing  breaks  the  martial  strain, 
No  blood  of  slaves  is  on  the  crowned, 

These  are  my  sons— the  sons  of  Maine. 

These  are  my  sons.     No  mystic  sage 

Hath  reverence  like  those  who  read 
The  prophecy  on  war's  dark  page, 

And  bade  the  land  be  comforted. 
For  some  with  council,  some  with  sword, 

Went  down,  an  awful  cup  to  drain, 
And  knew  the  fiat  of  the  Lord. 

These  are  my  sons — the  sons  of  Maine. 

The  Nation  knows  my  children — they 

Who  carry  in  their  souls  and  wills 
Some  mood  that  must  command  and  sway; 

A  birthright  of  their  frost-hewn  hills. 
And  those  who  knew  no  vaunted  part 

Still  toiled  in  silence  for  my  gain, 
All  share  the  bounties  of  my  heart  — 

These  are  my  sons— the  sons  of  Maine. 

Young  hearts  are  here,  who  only  wear 
The  earlier  glory  manhood  yields, 

They  hold  my  future ;  wait  to  bear 
Fresh  harvests  from  far  broader  fields. 

To-day  there  is  no  thought  of  strife, 

No  ghost  of  old,  forgotten  pain. 
64* 


830  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

Brethren— whose  life  is  all  my  life — 
These  are  my  sons — the  sons  of  Maine. 

O  voices,  winter  clear,  awake 

In  all  the  wild  familiar  shrines; 
In  thunder  on  the  great  shores  break, 

Call  from  the  deathless  mountain  pines. 
The  chant  that  lulled  their  cradle-rest 

Is  sweet  to  homesick  hearts  and  brain; 
Cry  "Welcome"  down  each  cliff  and  crest 

For  these,  my  sons — the  sons  of  Maine. 


Born  at  East  Livermore,  Me.,  Jan.  1,  1861;  removed  with  the  family,  seven  years  later, 
to  North  Fayette,  where  his  father  still  resides.  Mr.  Young's  verses  first  appeared  in 
the  Lewiston  Journal.  Graduated  with  honor  at  the  Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary,  Kent's 
Hill,  in  1881,  "  paying  his  own  way."  Has  taught  since  then  in  Maine  and  New  Jersey, 
with  marked  success.  In  1887  he  was  awarded  a  prize  of  $20,  for  a  poein  entitled  "  LittJe 
Sweethearts,"  by  the  publishers  of  the  Family  Herald  and  Star,  Montreal,  and  a  few 
months  later,  in  a  similar  contest,  he  won  the  second  prize  for  his  "  Holly  Queen,"  pub- 
ished  in  the  Western,  Advertiser,  of  London.  Mr.  Young  has  been  a  copious  writer  for 
some  of  the  best  publications. 


GOD'S  LETTER. 
We  had  come  from  a  warm,  sunny  country, 

Where  cold,  icy  winds  never  blow, 
To  a  land  that  in  winter  is  covered 

With  a  mantle  of  feathery  snow. 

We  had  carried  our  wee  little  Lillie, 
With  heaven's  own  light  in  her  eyes, 

Far  away  from  her  home  where  forever 
Smile  fairest  of  soft  summer  skies. 

One  cold,  chilling  day  in  the  autumn, 
When  dark  clouds  hung  heavy  and  gray, 

I  heard  the  sweet  voice  of  my  darling 
Peal  out  with  its  laughter  so  gay. 

And  I  found  the  fair,  sweet  little  maiden 
With  snow-crystals  bright  in  her  curls, 

Catching  at  the  light  flakes  as  they  eddied 
On  the  breezes  in  airiest  whirls. 

And  as  I  gazed  lovingly  on  her, 

She  caught  a  white  snow-flake  so  broad, 
And  dimpling  with  mirth  and  with  laughter, 

She  cried,  "  See  my  letter  from  God." 

That  night  came  a  cough,  hard  and  ringing, 
From  the  dear  little  innocent's  bed, 


NELLIE  WADE  WHITCOMB.  831 


Telling  of  childhood's  scourge,  and  ere  morning 
Our  beautiful  darling  was  dead. 

She  had  flown  from  our  shelter  forever, 
Her  blue  eyes  would  never  unfold, 

Her  sweet  laughter  never  would  cheer  us, 
Or  her  bright,  tossing  ringlets  of  gold. 

When  we  carried  our  beautiful  darling 
To  her  rest  'neath  the  snow-covered  sod, 

We  felt  in  the  midst  of  our  weeping 
She  indeed  had  a  message  from  God. 

And  we  knew  in  the  land  of  the  blessed 
He  had  opened  His  loving  arms  wide 

To  receive  the  reply  to  His  letter, 
Forever  to  rest  at  His  side. 


fhitcomb. 

Hopestill  Farnham"  is  the  nom  de  plume  of  Mrs.  Nellie  W.  Whitcomb,  the  young 
est  child  of  E.  D.  and  Mary  B.  Wade,  born  in  Parkman,  June  16,  1861.  Her  parents 
removed  to  Foxcroft  when  she  was  three  years  old,  and  Mr.  Wade  is  now  a  dry-goods 
merchant  at  Dover  Her  mother's  maiden  name  was  Dyer,  and  she  was  a  contributor  to 
The  .Mother's  Journal.  Mrs.  Whitcomb  has  written  largely  for  religious  and  Sabbath- 
•school  iournals  especially  for  juvenile  monthlies.  She  graduated  from  the  Classical 
Department  of  Maine  Central  Institute.  Pittstield,  Me.  She  was  married  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one  to  Mr.  Sargent  S.  Whitcomb,  of  Lawrence,  Kan.,  and  spends  her  summers  at 
Ocean  Park,  Old  Orchard. 

PISCATAQUIS  RIVER. 
I  glide  between  my  low  green  hills,  Where  slender  elm  or  sombre  pine 

A  bed  for  high,  blue  spaces;  Dip  dark  and  trembling  shadows. 

And  flow,  a  lucent,  amber  flood, 

Above  the  water  races.  My  fringing  flowers   oft    lean    and 

The  rocks  below  still  shatter  me  touch 

In  shining  shards  of  whiteness ;         The  tide>  to  c°o1  their  flushes 
A  moment  I  must  plunge  and  foam,  While  down  my  lucid  mirror   ooks 

Then  gain  unbroken  brightness,-    The  dreaming  Dawn,  and  blushes. 


Sweep  freely  on,  the  past  forgot, 

While  singing  low  but  gaily,-  *  [gom 

To  hold  the  sky,  or  soak  the  sod,  Down°thr'       h  the  dusk  will  blos. 

And  turn  the  mill-wheel  daily. 


I  clasp  my  islands  cool  and  close,          And  nestle  in  my  bosom. 

In  mild  or  stormy  weather, 
And  call  the  brooks  to  follow  me,-  At  lagt  x  leap  into  the  geftj 

We  dance  along  together,  Yet  leayo  old  comrades  never; 

And  leave  the  noisy  town,  to  glide    For  he,  who  once  has  dwelt  by  me, 

Through  quiet  country  meadows,      Will  dream  of  me  forever. 


852  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


illmm  JjnmhHn 


Prof.  W.  F.  Watson  was  born  in  New  Brunswick,  May  11,  1861,  and  attended  the  com 
mon  schools  of  that  province  for  several  years  Deciding  to  learn  the  printer's  trade  he 
entered  the  office  of  the  Woodstock  Press,  where  he  remained  nearly  a  year.  Not  find 
ing  the  business  very  congenial,  he  crossed  over  into  Maine  andlbegan  teaching.  In  Sep 
tember,  1880,  having  saved  something  from  his  salary,  he  entered  Houlton  Academy, 
now  the  Kicker  Classical  Institute.  Graduated  in  1883,  and  September  of  the  same  year 
entered  Colby  University,  finishing  his  course  July  6,  1887.  During  his  Senior  year  at 
the  University  he  published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  and  college  poerns  entitled  "  The 
Children  of  the  Sun."  June  16,  1887.  three  weeks  before  graduating,  he  was  elected  Pro 
fessor  of  Chemistry  and  Natural  Philosophy  in  Furman  University,  Greenville,  S.  C., 
which  position  he  now  holds. 


PEDAGOGICAL  COGITATIONS. 

O  birchen  tickler  from  the  forest  shade, 
I  sing  thy  praises  ever  fresh  and  new, 

A  trusty  helper  in  my  school  you've  made, 
And  great  the  credit  I  ascribe  to  you. 

And  thou  art  no  respecter,  in  thy  way, 
Of  persons.     On  the  taper,  lily  hand 

Of  the  fair  maiden,  I  have  seen  thee  play, 
And  do  thy  work  impressively  and  grand, 

As  well  as  on  the  rough  and  horny  palm 
Of  some  young  Neptune  from  the  waves'  caress, 

Who  came  and  wintered  in  his  native  clime, 
To  impress  the  people  with  his  worthlessness. 

And  thou  hast  labored  on  the  urchin  fist, 
Adorned  with  warts,  and  nails  in  mourning  all, 

And  grimy  dirt  that  soap  and  water  missed, 
When  closed  the  sardine  factory  in  the  fall. 

Let  others  talk  of  ways  and  methods  new 
To  still  the  yagger  in  the  school  or  church, 

But  no  persuader  can  compare  with  you, 
Time-honored,  pacifying,  forest  birch. 


Ah!  little  scholar,  you  may  never  know 
How  very  sorry  teacher  is  to  see 

Your  freckled  face  with  bitter  tears  aflow, 
And  stay  the  current  of  your  childish  glee. 

And  though,  to-day,  you  cannot  understand, 
Though  inconsistent,  it  is  surely  true, 

The  marks  upon  the  dirty  little  hand 
Will  be  a  blessing  in  the  end  to  you. 


NELLIE  GRACE  BRAY.  838 


Miss  Nellie  Grace  Bray,  daughter  of  Edward  and  Abbie  Bray,  was  born  in  Harrison, 
Aug.  26,  1861.  Since  1882  she  has  been  teacher  of  Greek  and  mathematics  at  Bridgton 
Academy— a  position  which  she  fills  most  acceptably.  She  has  written,  in  a  quiet  way,  a 
good  deal,  but,  at  her  own  option,  has  not  allowed  her  poems  to  be  published  except  in 
the  academy  paper,  The  Stranger.  We  are  indebted  to  one  of  her  former  pupils  for  the 
poem  herein  presented. 

OLD  OCEAN'S  WOOING. 

At  the  ebb  of  the  tide,  the  ocean, — the  sea  with  its  silver  sheen, 
Saw  the  fair  land  bathed  in  sunlight,  like  a  glory-circled  queen, 
And  he  longed  in  his  arms  to  clasp  her,  to  fold  her  close  to  his  breast, 
To  touch  with  his  lips  her  forehead,  to  be  by  her  hand  caressed. 

But  the  land  cared  not  for  the  ocean,  she  stood  in  her  pride  alone, — 
In  her  conscious  pride  and  beauty,  nor  heeded  the  ocean's  moan. 

The  tide  swept  up  from  the  ocean,  the  mighty,  resistless  tide, —       [fied. 
But  the  fair  land  mocked  at  his  coming,  and  the  strength  of  the  sea  de- 
"  You  may  cease  your  vain  endeavor,"  she  said,  "presumptuous  sea, 
For  your  strongest  wave  must  weary,  or  ever  it  reaches  me." 

But  the  mighty  deep  made  answer,  mid  the  rush  of  its  waters  wide: 

"  Ye  know  not  the  strength  and  the  patience,  deep-hid  in  the  heart  of 

the  tide. 

With  panting  breath  each  billow  flies  back  to  my  arms  to  rest, 
But  the  goal  is  a  little  nearer  than  it  was  when  it  reared  its  crest." 

The  waves  rolled  on  unceasing,  till  they  covered  the  yellow  sand, 

Till  the  lips  of  the  grand  old  ocean  touched  the  feet  of  the  fair,  proud 

land, 

But  the  angry  land  frowned  darkly,  dark  frowned  in  her  angry  pride, 
Till  the  billows  turned  them  seaward,  turned  back  with  the  ebbing  tide. 

At  the  turn  of  the  tide  the  ocean  swept  up  to  the  land  again, 

But  she  drew  her  back  from  his  kisses,  with  a  gesture  of  proud  disdain. 

Thus  day  by  day  the  ocean  crept  up  to  kiss  her  feet, 
With  the  tale  of  his  heart's  devotion,  with  his  lore-song  low  and  sweet. 
But  she  turned  her  face  to  the  westward,  to  the  home  of  the  setting  sun, 
And  closed  her  ears  to  the  music  of  the  waves  till  their  song  was  done. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  ocean  rose  up  in  his  power  and  might, 
And  said,  "  I  will  clasp  to  my  bosom  the  scornful  land  this  night." 

The  tide  swept  up  from  the  ocean,  the  mighty,  resistless  tide, — 
With  the  deep-toned  voice  of  a  giant,  with  a  giant's  wrathful  stride, 
And  the  proud  land  shrank  in  terror  at  the  mad  waves'  deaf'ning  roar, 
At  the  mocking  laugh  of  the  billows  as  they  broke  on  the  frighteped 
shore. 


834 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


At  her  feet  they  paused  a  moment  to  gather  their  strength  anew, 
Then  upward  leaped  in  the  darkness,  and  the  dream  of  the  sea  came  true. 
The  pride  of  the  land  was  broken,  and  she  lay  in  the  arms  of  the  sea 
Like  a  weary  child  in  its  cradle,  like  a  child  on  its  mother's  knee. 

The  ears  that  were  deaf  to  his  wooing  when  the  waves  crept  tenderly  in, 
The  heart  that  was  closed  to  his  pleading,  when  gently  he  strove  to  win, 
Gave  heed  to  the  roar  of  the  tempest,  to  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  tide, 
And  gave  to  the  strength  of  the  ocean  the  love  to  his  smiles  denied. 

When  the  tide  sweeps  up  from  the  ocean  to  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  land, 

She  eagerly  waits  for  his  coming  o'er  the  reaches  of  yellow  sand; 

And   she  joyously  bends  to  greet  him,  as  he  crosses  the  wave-washed 

strand, 
Till  the  arms  of  the  grand  old  ocean  encircled  the  sun-crowned  land. 


dilton  Mashburn. 


D.  C.  Wasliburn  was  born  in  Rockport,  Me.,  Oct.  9,  1861;  graduated  from  Bates  Col 
lege,  class  of  '85.  While  in  college  he  was  a  constant  writer  tor  the  Student,  the  college 
magazine,  and  was  on  its  editorial  start'.  Among  other  publications,  he  has  contributed 
to  St.  Nicholas,  Outing,  Cottage  Hearth,  the  Boston  Transcript,  the  Xeiv  York  Mail 
and  Express.  He  has  published  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  "  Songs  from  the  Seasons, 
and  other  Verses,"  which  is  now  in  its  second  edition.  In  the  spring  of  1887  Mr.  Wash- 
burn  went  to  New  York  to  engage  in  journalism,  and  is  now  on  the  staff  of  the  New 
York  Press. 


EVENING  ON 

As  I  drift  in  my  boston  the  harbor, 
In  the  calm  of  the  summer  night, 

The  moon  in  the  arms  of  the  cres 
cent 
Floods  all  with  its  misty  light. 

The  water  reflects  the  moon-beams 
In  a  wavy,  twisted  band, 

Like  a  mirror  of  polished  metal 
From  some  distant  Eastern  land. 

No  sound  but  the  click  of  the  row 
lock, 

And  the  measured  dip  of  an  oar, 
And  the  lisping  plash  of  the  ripples, 
As   they  break  on   the    western 
shore. 

The  lights  in  the  hillside  village 
Are  fading  into  the  night; 

But  a  kiln,  with  its  flaming  furnace, 
Gleams  out  with  a  ruddy  light. 

The  ships'  great  forms  around  me 
Are  grim  as  the  jaws  of  death, 


THE  HARBOR. 

And  the  gray  masts  rise  like  spectres 
That    would    vanish    away    at  a 
breath. 

The  water  is  smooth  and  glassy, — 
Its  spirit  is  hushed  to  rest;    [ocean 

And  'tis   only  the   swell  from   the 
That  tells  of  its  heaving  breast. 

O  would  that  each  toiling  mortal 
Could  feel  the  calm  and  rest  [ness 

That  comes  with  the   evening   still- 
To  the  ocean's  troubled  breast: — 

Could  feel  that  the  noise  and  toiling, 
All  day,  in  the  busy  town, 

Is  only  a  breeze  from  the  ocean, 
And  will  cease  when  the  sun  goes 
down. 

And  the  waves  that  are  ever  toss 
ing, —  [strife, — 

The  foam  and  the  plashes  of 
Grow  calm,  and  only  the  surges 

Boll  in  from  the  Ocean  of  Life. 


C.  W.  MONTGOMERY.—  ELIZABETH  A.  HILL.  835 


This  lady  was  born  in  Boothbay,  Me.,  Nov.  2,  1861.  Her  early  years  were  spent  in  the 
usual  employments  of  childhood,  and  not  being  of  a  strong  constitution,  her  education 
was  of  a  desultory  character  till  her  tenth  year  was  reached,  when,  with  her  parent.", 
she  removed  to  Deering,  and  entered  the  Grammar  School,  graduating  in  1879,  the  vale 
dictorian  of  the  class.  Graduated  from  Westbrook  Seminary,  1881,  from  Gorham  Nor 
mal  School,  1884,  in  the  two  last-named  classes  officiating  as  class-poet.  Took  a  sea-  voyage 
in  1883.  Is  now  an  assistant  teacher  in  the  peering  High  School.  She  has  written  sev 
eral  very  acceptable  poems  for  special  occasions,  and  possesses  much  skill  in  writing  for, 
and  in  pleasing  children. 

A  TEACHER'S  LIFE. 
To  work,  to  wait,  to  watch,  to  pray, 

To  strive  some  truth  to  give  each  day, 
To  render  aid  to  this  one's  needs, 

Some  comfort  bear  for  that  one's  woes,  — 
This  is  the  life  a  teacher  leads, 

As  every  teacher  knows. 

To  have  the  warning  thrust  aside, 

To  feel  the  patience  sorely  tried, 
To  lift  the  weight  of  heavy  cares, 

Increased  by  words  that  hurt  like  blows,— 
This  is  the  pain  a  teacher  bears, 

As  every  teacher  knows. 

To  hear  "  Good  morning"  brightly  said, 
To  meet  the  smiles  which  pleasure  shed, 

The  glance,  the  word,  which  love  reveals, 
The  pity  that  in  trouble  flows,  — 

These  are  the  joys  a  teacher  feels, 
As  every  teacher  knows. 

Then  work,  and  wait,  and  watch,  and  pray, 
Still  strive^some  truth  to  give  each'day, 

Each  worthy  effort  firm  shall  stand, 
The  joys  shall  far  exceed  the  woes; 

God  bids  thee  work  nor  hold  thy  hand,  — 
As  every  teacher  knows. 


<V7v*ft 

jjill 

Miss  Hill  was  born  in  Portland,  April  29,  1862,  and  has  always  lived  in  her  native  city. 
Her  health  has  been  delicate  for  several  years.  Under  the  nam  de  plume  of  "  Arthur 
Alger,"  and,  more  recently,  the  simple  initials,  "A.  A.,"  she  has  written  several  fine 
poems  which  have  appeared  in  the  Portland  Transcript  and  other  literary  publications. 

DEAD! 
I  close  his  eyes — the  eyes  that  flashed  with  fire: 

Fire  of  wrath  and  pride  and  bitter  shame; 
Smooth  the  young  cheeks— the  cheeks  that  glowed  with  ire 

Only  to  hear  the  traitor's  hateful  name; 


836  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Kiss  the  dumb  lips — the  lips  that  curved  with  scorning ; 

Cover  the  mantle  o'er  the  clotted  breast; 
Fold  the  pale  hands  that  never  hurt  for  wronging, 

That  would  not  break  the  smallest  creature's  rest. 
Before  this  silent  presence  bow  thy  head, — 
It  is  a  princely  form  that  lieth  dead. 

0  he  was  noble !  never  was  another 
One-half  so  noble  as  my  murdered  boy! 

To  all  mankind  he  was  a  royal  brother, 
Each  vassal's  friend,  the  nation's  chief est  joy; 

Brave  as  a  hawk,  and  yet  so  truly  tender 
He  would  not  rudely  brush  a  senseless  rose ; 

Justice  and  Eight  could  claim  their  defender, 
Strength  of  the  weak,  redresser  of  all  woes : 

Search  the  world  over  and  you  will  not  find 

Such  god-like  grace  in  any  mortal  mind. 

Alas,  my  boy,  how  fair  you  looked  at  morning! 
You  would  not  leave  me  long,  you  fondly  said, 

1  little  thought  that  ere  another  dawning 

The  lips  that  kissed  so  warmly  would  be  dead ; 
The  life  that  was  a  glory  to  the  nation 

Beneath  a  villain's  hand  would  meet  its  doom; 
/~  cj;i!ilry  ,j  <  illy  promise  of  salvation 

Would  lie  with  its  young  leader  in  the  tomb. 
My  peace  on  earth  f orevermore  is  fled ; 
Beside  thee,  dear,  I  would  be  lying  dead. 


Mter 


Born  Oct.  23,  1862,  at  Great  Chebeague  Islaml,  (Cumberland,)  Me.  Educated  in  the 
common  schools,  with  one  year  in  the  Portland  High  School,  and  learned  to  set  type 
when  hardly  tall  enough  to  reach  the  case.  His  first  literary  adventure  appeared  in  a 
juvenile  monthly,  Boston,  in  1887.  His  first  newspaper  work  was  reportorial  on  the  Daily 
New  Era,  and  he  was  the  first  editor  of  the  Portland  City  Item,  now  Evening  Express; 
also  connected  with  the  Portland  Morning  yews,  the  Express,  and  afterward  with,  the 
Washington  Post-as  editorial  writer.  On  account  of  malaria  returned  to  Portland,  and 
was  assistant  editor  in  1884  on  the  Portland  Advertiser.  In  1884  he  returned  to  the 
Washington  Post  as  night  editor,  and  is  now  engaged  on  such  special  work  as  his  health 
will  permit.  Mr.  Sawyer  was  married,  Nov.  12,  1884,  to  Flora  M.  Farmer,  of  Portland, 
and  has  one  child,  Eva  May  Louise.  Mr.  Sawyer  is  a  voluminous  and  successful  writer, 
both  in  prose  and  verse. 


UNDER  AX    UMBRELLA. 
Where  I  gained  it,  you  may  seek  it, 
Where  I  told  it.  you  may  speak  it, — 
Love  that  dares  both  wind  and  weather, 
Draws  the  maid  and  man  together, 


KATHEEINE  F.  STONE  COOK.  837 


Reconciles  to  April  showers 
Hastening  May  (and  orange)  flowers — 

Love  and  I  and  Annabella 

All  were  under  one  umbrella! 

Little  hands  that  held  fast  to  me, 
Eyes  whose  glances  shot  straight  through  me, 
Lips  that  murmured  thanks  for  kindness, 
Cheeks  that  mock  my  (feigned)  resignedness, 
Dainty  feet  that,  when  they  stumbled, 
Touched  my  heart  (which  never  grumbled) — 

Love  and  I  and  Annabella 

All  were  under  an  umbrella! 

Walked  we,  talked,  till  Love,  grown  weary, 
Made  her  answer  thus  my  query : 
"I  Why  I  like  the  rainy  season  ? 
O,  because]"    She  gave  the  reason, 
Then  a  blush  her  dimples  hallowed, — 
You  may  never  know  what  followed!— 

Love  and  I  and  Annabella 

All  were  under  an  umbrella! 


Catherine  <g.  jjtane 

F.  Stone  was  born  in  Bridgton,  Me.,  May  10 

gh  School  in  elune,  187t),  and  from  the  Gorh 

graduation,  she  occupied,  for  two  years,  the 

in  Fry e burg  Academy.     In  September,  1885,  she  married  Oliver  It.  Cook,  a  graduate'of 
Bowdoin  College,  then  Principal  of  the  Freeport  High  School. 


Katherine  F.  Stone  was  born  in  Bridgton,  Me.,  May  10,  18G3.  She  graduated  from  the 
Bridgton  High  School  in  June,  1879,  and  from  the  Gorhain  Normal  School  in  January, 
1883.  After  graduation,  she  occupied,  for  two  years,  the  position  of  Associate  Principal 


MOUNTAIN  TOPS. 
The  grand  old  mountains  lift  their  granite  heads 

Beneath  the  sun,  and  rain,  and  arching  sky; 
Each  dawning  sunrise  finds  them  still  the  same, 

Unmoved,  unchanged,  unchangeable  for  aye. 

The  storms  of  winter  and  the   summer's  dew 
Alike  unheeded  leave  their  destined  trace, 

But  still  unmoved,  in  grand  simplicity, 
Each  calmly  fills  its  own  appointed  place. 

The  tufted  mosses  weave  their  slender  web, 
As  if  to  tone  and  soften  those  stern  lines, 

And  out  from  many  a  crevice  fringes  float 
Of  hardy  rock-ferns  and  gay  columbines. 

Who  knows  what  converse  these  may  nightly  hold 
With  yonder  stars,  their  glorious  compeers  ? 

Perchance,  when  all  the  world  is  hushed  in  sleep, 
They  listen  to  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


838 


THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Climb  then,  and  stand  upon  the  mountain  tops, 
In  that  pure  upper  air,  and  breathe  thy  song, 

Or  from  its  base  look  upward  to  the  heights, 

And  in  the  shadow  of  their  strength,  grow  strong. 

Then  lift  again  the  burdens  of  the  day, 
But  bear  them  with  a  broader,  higher  aim, 

Live  with  your  heart  upon  the  mountain  tops, 
Although  your  feet  must  tread  the  dusty  plain. 


e1en 


Helen  Maude  Merrill  was  born  May  5,  1865,  in  Bangor,  Me.     Her  first  published  poem 
wfs  in  the  WoterviUe  Sentinel,  in  1882.    Has  since  been  a  contributor  lo  severa   papers 
among  which  is  the  Gospel  Banner,  published  111  Augusta,  Me,    lor  tJ 
has  been  engaged  in  editorial  work. 

THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  STONE. 
In  volumes  of  prosaic  lore,  He  questioned  of  the  artist  thus: 


Or  lyric-songs  from  poet-mind, 
This  little  gem,  repeated  oft, 

Seems  far  the  sweetest  that  I  find : 
Once  on  a  time  a  sculptor  lived, 
Whose  inspirations,  high  and 

grand,  [him,     ( 

Achieved  such  wondrous  fame  for 
That  he  was  known  throughout 
the  land. 

Into  his  studio,  one  day, 

There  came  a  favored  friend  to  see 
His  perfect  works,  which  only  lacked 

The  seal  of  immortality.      [skill, 
Clustered  in  groups  with  careful 

To  best  display  each  statue  rare, 
What  wonder  the  beholder  stood 

In  speechless  admiration  there ! 

But  lo,  he  starts,  and  suddenly 

A  shadow  fell  across  his  face ! 
Amid  those  sculptured  forms  he  saw 
That  which  to  him  seemed  out  of 

place. 

Surrounded  by  those  works  of  art, 
There  stood  a  rough,  ungainly 
stone,  [scene, 

Which  to  the  gazer  marred  the 
And  so  with  quick,  impatient  tone 


O  friend  of  mine,  ho  w  canst  thou 

bear 

To  spoil  so  fine  a  scene  as  this, 
With  that  rough  stone  of  marble 

there?" 

"  I  see  no  stone,"  the  one  replied, 
Whose  artist-soul  knew  naught 

but  art, — 

"  Within  that  marble  block  I  trace 
A  fairer  and  diviner  part. 

"  That  which  offends  your  sight  to 
day, 

Which  you  so  hastily  condemn, 
Shall  be  removed,  if  you  '11  agree 
In  six  months  hence  to  come 

again. ' '  [  withdrew, 

With  thanks  profuse  the  guest 
And  day-grown  weeks  in  months 

had  flown 

Ere  he  returned  to  view  the  work 
Free  from  the  blemish  of  the  stone. 

Therein  the  place  where  it  had 

stood,  [sight, 

No  trace  remained  to  grieve  the 
But  in  its  place  he  then  beheld 
A  perfect  angel,  pure  and  white. 
Again  his  admiration  quelled 
The  feeble  power  of  human 
speech! 


ALBERT  W.  TOLMAN.—ANNA  C.  SMITH.  839 


The  sculptor's  master-piece  of  art     I  heeded  not  the  ugly  stone, 
No  word  of  mortal  tongue  could       But  saw  the  angel  shining  through.' 

reach-  There  is  many  a  mortal  life, 

Then  with  a  smile  the  artist  said:        Resembling  the  unsightly  stoner 
"  The  marble  block  that  once  you  Wherein  an  angel  form  is  shrined,. 

spurned,  Which  must  be  sculptured  out 

You  now  admire,  since  by  my  hand  alone. 

It  to  an  angel  form  has  turned.         O  help  us,  then,  ye  heavenly  guidesv 
And  all  the  while  you  frowned,  To  carve  with  finest  care  each  day, 

because  [your  view,  Until  the  angel  stands  revealed, — - 

A  thing  so  crude  should  meet  The  refuse  marble  cast  away ! 


alttr      olman. 


Born  at  Rockport,  in  the  town  of  Camden,  Knox  County,  Me.,  Nov.  29,  1866.  Game  to 
Portland  in  1873,  and  has  resided  there  ever  since.  Graduated  from  the  Portland  High 
School  in  the  class  of  1884,  delivering  the  Latin  salutatory.  In  the  fall  ot  the  same  year 
(1884)  entered  Bowdoin  College,  and  is  at  present  a  member  of  the  Senior  class  there. 
One  of  the  editors  of  the  college  publication,  the  Bowdoin  Orient,  April,  1886  to  April. 
1887;  managing  editor  of  the  same,  April,  1887,  to  April,  1888.  Has,  up  to  1888,  published 
no  poems  except  in  college  publications. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

O'er  Bowdoin's  halls  the  stars  gleam  bright, 
Pine-hushed  the  soft  winds  whisper  low; 

Streams  from  her  windows  many  a  light 
In  mellow  lanes  across  the  snow. 

The  curved  moon  in  the  west  is  pale, 
From  the  red  east  the  day-dawn  falls, 

And  Night  draws  back  her  shadowy  veil 
From  Bowdoin's  halls. 


This  lady  was  born  in  Raynham,  Mass.,  Oct.  30,  1734—"  old  stile  "—and  married  Lieut. 
Jasiel  Smith,  grandfather  of  Seba  Smith,  the  poet.  They  removed  from  Taunton.  Mass, 
where  they  had  lived  thirty  years,  to  Turner  Me.,  in  1786  their  nine  children  marrying 
and  settling  in  Turner  and  adjoining  towns.  Mrs.  Smith  died  in  Boothbay,  Me.,  May  18, 
1823,  when  in  her  89th  year,  and  a  poetical  farewell  to  her  friends  was  found  in  her  grave- 
clothes  and  read  at  her  funeral.  She  had  a  vigorous  intellect,  and  much  of  Seba  Smith's 
talent  was  probably  inherited  from  her.  She  was  also  the  great- grandmother  of  the 
well-known  writer,  Clara  Marcelle  Greene. 

MY  EIGHTY-EIGHTH  BIRTHDAY. 

This  day  my  years  are  eighty-eight,  May  I  with  those  in  realms  above 

An  unexpected  age ;  That  here  are  my  delight,  j 

O  may  I  now  with  patience  wait  Forever  sing  redeeming  love 

My  weary  pilgrimage.  In  glory  infinite. 

O  guide  me  down  the  steps  of  age,  Upon  a  poor  polluted  worm 

And  keep  my  passions  cool,  O  make  thy  grace  to  shine ! 

To  understand  thy  sacred  page  O  save  me]for  thy  mercy's  sake, 

And  practice  every  rule.  For  I  am  doubly  thine ! 


840  THE  POETS  OF  MA1NK. 


This  well-known  gentleman  was  born  in  Portland,  in  1806.  and  died  in  1872.  He  was 
a  brother  of  Edward  H.  Thomas,  elsewhere  represented  in  this  volume  and  was  for 
many  years  in  business  in  his  native  city.  Mr.  Thomas  was  the  author  of  several  poems 
of  real  merit. 

THE  BETTER  LIFE. 
In  the  vast  regions  of  eternal  space, 

My  soul  shall  wing  its  way  for  evermore; 
Of  sorrow,  there  shall  not  be  left  a  trace, 

Onward  and  onward  shall  my  spirit  soar, 
And  kindred  souls  shall  with  me  wing  their  flight, 

And  in  the  realms  of  joy,  for  evermore  unite. 
Joy,  purer  than  the  beams  in  midnight  hours, 

Shed  by  the  moon,  or  stars,  on  folded  flowers. 

O  world  of  love,  and  purity,  aiid  peace, 

The  thought  of  thee  makes  earth's  bright  home  look  dim; 
And  may  my  mind,  mid  life's  dull  scenes,  ne'er  cease 

To  think  of  heavenly  scenes,  where  cherubim 
And  seraphim  continually  round  the  lays 

To  golden  harps,  in  their  Creator's  praise. 

Soon,  soon  the  brightest  earthly  visions  cense 

Here,  for  the  soul  no  perfect  joy  is  known. 
Till  Hope  flies  forward  to  the  land  of  peace, 

And  bows  submissively  before  the  Throne, 
And  far  from  earthly  pains,  and  tears,  and  sighs, 

Reposeth  in  the  bowers  of  Paradise. 


fillmn 


lume.    The  following  extract,  af 
lotte's  metrical  skill,  appeared  in  the  Portland  Transcript. 


also  a  contributor  to  this  volume.    The  following  extract,  afair  specimen  of  Miss  Tourtil- 


PROMISE. 

There's  always  sunshine  after  rain,     More  beautiful  will  be  the  day, 
Though  shadows  gather  dark  and     When  all  the  clouds  have  fled  away, 
fast  And  teardrops  turn  to  jewels  bright. 

Across  our  lives,  and  hope  seems 

past,  The  dove  of  peace  shall  calmly  rest 

We  know  the  sun  will  shine  again.        Beneath  the  rainbow's    glorious 

light. 

Though  wrapped  in  sorrow's  dark-     All  fled  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
est  night,  And  this  fair  day  shall  be  most  blest. 


ENOCH  PERLEY.  841 


Son  of  Thomas  Perley  and  Eunice  Putnam  (sister  of  Gen.  Israel  Putnam);  born  in 
Boxford,  Mass.,  May  19,  1749,  arid  died  in  Bridgton,  Me.,  Dec.  23,  1829.  A  descendant  in 
the  fourth  generation,  from  Allen  Perley,  who  came  from  Wales,  Great  Britain  to  Mas 
sachusetts,  in  1630.  "  Esq."  Perley,  as  he  was  usually  called,  came  to  Bridgton  in  1776: 
settled  in  the  south  part  of  the  town,  on  the  place  now  owned  and  occupied  by  his  grand 
son,  Col.  John  P.  Perley.  From  the  time  of  his  first  coming  to  Bridgton,  he  occupied  a 
conspicuous  position  there.  The  following  extract  is  from  a  poem  found  on  the  bark  of 
a  birch-tree  in  Bridgton,  1776. 


AN  EXTRACT. 

Lo !  here,  the  forests  wild  produce, 

Already  fitted  for  my  use, 

Paper,  whose  sheets  are  fine  and  large, 

Without  a  farthing's  cost  or  charge. 

How  far  exceeds  all  human  skill 

This  perfect  work  of  nature's  mill! 

And,  lo,  where  art  is  forced  aside, 

All  bounteous  nature  will  provide ! 

And  here  her  ample  stores  unfold— 

Her  treasures— formed  in  times  of  old. 

Earth,  air,  or  water  will  appear 

With  food  and  med'cine  fraught  its  share. 

In  ponds  and  brooks,  I  daily  find 

The  club,  the  eel,  the  horned  pout, 

The  pickerel,  perch  and  spotted  trout 

These,  with  a  numerous  silver  train, 

Sport  up  and  down  the  liquid  plain 

The  tortoise,  too,  both  flesh  and  fish, 

To  epicures  a  dainty  dish. 

Our  native  beasts  which  range  theJwood 

Serve  both  to  clothe,  and  give  us  food 

The  gallant  moose,  so  famed  for  speed, 

On  these  majestic  mountains  feed 

The  threatening  armor  from  his  head 

Excites  in  man  an  awful  dread ; 

But  the  fierce  hound,  endowed  with  skill 
To  know  and  act  his  master's  will, 
Shall  quickly  make  the  monster  know 
That  man  is  lord  of  all  below. 
The  nimble  deer,  like  lambkins  play, 
Where  wolves  and  bears  pursue  their  prey. 
The  beaver,  too,  whose  silken  coat 
Is  worn  and  prized  by  lords  of  note — 
The  coney,  and  long-haired  raccoon, 
The  partridge,  duck,  and  gabbling  loon. 
M 


842  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 


Thomas  Randall,  for  several  years  a  resident  of  Parsonsfield,  Me.,  where  three  of  his 


wide  variety  of  themes,  was  published  at  Limerick,  Me.,  in  1833,  by  William  Burr.    It  is 
now  out  of  print,  and  exceedingly  rare. 


THE  WISDOM  OF  GOD. 

Great  nature  is  but  art  unknown, 
'Tis  only  scanned  by  God  alone; 

No  one  but  Him  can  it  explore, 
Survey  each  part  and  look  it  o'er. 

If  man  is  wise,  'tis  but  in  part, 

Though  he  may  climb  from  art  to  art; 

To  worlds  unnumbered  he  may  run, 
But  yet  in  fact  he  knows  but  one. 

Four  volumes  Jesus  loans  to  me — 

"The  heavens,  the  earth,  the  air  and  sea." 


jjtetvart 

Hon  Charles  S.  Daveis,  only  son  of  Capt.  Ebenezer  Davis,  a  veteran  officer  of  the  Rev 
olution  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  May  10,  1788.  He  took  his  degree  at  Bowdoin  m  1807, 
with  high  honors.  At  his  commencement  he  delivered  the  valedictory  oration  and  also 
a  Doera  on  "Tradition,"  an  extract  from  which  is  given  below.  He  practiced  the  profes 
sion  of  the  law  in  Portland  for  many  years,  attaining  eminence,  and  had  the  reputation 
of  being  one  of  the  best  Equity  lawyers  in  the  United  States.  In  1830  he  was  sent  to  the 
Hague  by  the  Government  to  assist  in  preparing  the  American  case  in  regard  to  the 
Northeastern  Boundary,  the  controversy  having  been  referred  to  the  King  of  the  Neth 
erlands  for  arbitration.  In  1840-11  Mr.  Daveis  was  a  member  of  the  Maine  Senate;  was 
foi many Years  President  of  the  Massachusetts  Branch  of  the  Society  of  Cincinnati.  He 
delivered  orations  on  special  occasions;  a  Latin  address,  in  1839,  at  Bowdoin  on.  the 
iuiimuratioii i  of  President  Woods,  and  began  a  life  of  Gen.  Henry  Knox  which  his  fail- 
ing  hellth  did I  not  permit  him  to  finish.  He  died,  March  29,  1865,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
gix  years. 

THE  POWER  OF  PLACE. 

Without  the  rock,  the  wilderness,  the  shore, 
What  were  the  mightiest  romantic  lore  ? 
Long  since  had  Spain  forgot  her  cruel  loss, 
Beneath  the  banner  of  the  Holy  Cross, 
But  on  Lerida's  plains  old  Ebro  saw 
The  Saracen  wage  fierce  and  bloody  war. 
And  in  Tweeddale  the  Scot  discovers  now 
The  savage  Merlin  on  the  mountain  brow. 


JOSIAH  ANDREWS.  843 


Without  the  summer  bank,  in  the  moonlight  vale, 

There  were  no  incantation  in  the  tale. 

Sweet  as  the  Voice  of  Coila  pours  his  strains, 

'Tis  sweetest  on  old  Coila's  hills  and  plains. 

The  bowers  of  Rosamond  and  Robin  Hood 

To  English  hearts  give  enviable  mood. 

Antonie  had  not  mourned  the  lovers'  doom, 

Had  Lignon  never  murmured  by  their  tomb. 

In  the  wild  fields  where  his  romance  was  bred, 

The  poet  lives,  though  Lycidas  is  dead. 

The  tears  for  Hassan  quickly  will  be  dry; 

For  who  knows  where  the  poet's  treasures  lie  ? 

Hafiz  were  dead,  but  that  he  wins  his  way, 

With  Rocnabad  and  blooms  with  Mosellay. 

The  emigrant  from  Elbe  forgot  the  fights 

And  feasts  of  Elbe  for  Arthur  and  his  knights, 

For  Memory  longest  with  Nature  dwells, 

In  Nature's  album  writes  his  deepest  spells, 

And  consecrates  his  friend's  beloved  haunts, 

Has  smiles  for  all  her  flowers,  a  tear  for  all  her  plants. 

And  native  songs  are  sweetened  by  a  grace 

Almost  enchanting  from  the  power  of  place. 

Place, — like  the  sealing  moss  upon  the  fanes, 

Tells  us  what  was,  and  hallows  the  remains ; 

Like  the  pathetic  leaf  of  autumn,  blends 

The  death  of  Nature  and  the  loss  of  friends, 

And,  where  the  fragments  of  old  grandeur  lie, 

We  mourn  for  empires,  though  we  know  not  why. 

No  bard  hath  sung  so  well,  nor  sage  has  thought, 

As  mounds  have  preached,  and  cypresses  have  taught. 


Born  in  Augusta,  Mo.,  Aug.  1,  17!)0,  a  lawyer  by  profession.  He  died  Nov.  16,  1S47,  in 
Philadelphia,  Pa.,  en  route  to  the  West  Indies.  Ills  widow,  who  was  Lucy  S.  Frazier, 
before  her  marriage,  was  a  native  of  Maine,  ami  is  still  living  at  the  age  of  81.  Mr. 
Andrews  lived  for  some  time  in  Perry,  N.  Y.,  having  moved  from  Augusta  thither  Mr, 
Andrews  was  very  favorably  known  as  a  poet. 

TO  AUGUSTA. 

Years,  years  have  rolled  on  since  I  mused  on  thy  shore, 
Or  heard  the  wild  waves  of  the  Kennebec  roar; 
Yet  thy  fields  are  as  green,  and  thy  hills  are  as  high, 
As  when  they  delighted  in  childhood  mine  eye; 
And  I  love  by  thy  waters  still  pensive  to  stray, 
And  call  back  the  visions  long,  long  fled  away. 


844  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE 

Sweet  scenes  of  my  childhood,  I  greet  ye  once  more; 

I  love  with  the  ardor  I  loved  you  before ; 

And  I  kneel  on  the  sod  where  in  boyhood  I  knelt, 

And  I  feel  all  the  rapture  my  bosom  then  felt, 

As  I  gaze  011  the  scenes  where  my  infancy  played, 

Or  stray  on  the  hills  where  in  childhood  I  strayed. 

But  where  are  the  friends  that  my  bosom  then  knew, 

The  loved  ones,  the  faithful,  the  constant  and  true  ? 

Where,  where  is  that  joyous,  that  fairy-like  throng, 

The  favored  of  fancy,  the  children  of  song, 

Whose  hearts  were  united  by  friendship's  soft  ties, 

And  wrhose  soul  could  be  read  in  their  joy-speaking  eyes; 

As  oft  in  wild  frolic  they  danced  on  yon  hill, 

Or  truant-like  lingered  at  eve  by  the  rill, 

And  gathered  wild  flowers,  or  strayed  by  yon  stream, 

As  it  rippled  and  played  in  the  moon's  silver  beam  ? 

I  roam,  loved  Augusta, — I  roam  through  thy  bowers, 
Thy  mansions  of  state,  and  thy  gardens  of  flowers; 
I  meet  with  the  great,  and  the  grave,  and  the  gay; 
But  the  mates  of  my  childhood,  I  ask  where  are  they  ? 
I  call  on  the  friends  of  my  childhood  to  come, 
And  welcome  the  wanderer  back  to  his  home. 
Though  I  stand  in  the  halls  where  in  boyhood  I  stood, 
And  though  gather  around  me  the  great  and  the  good, 
Though  the  kind  hand  of  welcome  is  tendered  me  here, 
I  miss  the  warm  hearts  that  in  childhood  were  dear. 


jjonnthan 


Born  in  Harmony,  Me.,  about  1800;  studied  languages  and  mathematics  at  Bloomfield 
Academy;  went  to  Virginia  and  engaged  in  teaching  for  some  years;  returned  to  his  old 
home  in  the  Pine  Tree  State  and  studied  medicine;  settled  in  Morgan  County,  111.;  wa§ 
a  surgeon  in  the  Black  Hawk  War;  acquired  quite  a  reputation  for  his  treatment  of 
cholera,  and  died  soon  after.  Was  a  poet  of  more  than  ordinary  merit. 

APOTHEOSIS. 

No  more,  Apollo,  with  poetic  fire, 

Awake  the  murmurs  of  my  sleeping  lyre ; 

Tell  me  no  longer  of  a  poet's  name, 

Immortal  honors  and  eternal  fame ! 

Thy  name,  sweet  girl,  since  Fate  no  more  can  give, 

In  my  remembrance  shall  forever  live ; 

With  magic  powers  shall  thrill  my  lonely  heart, 

And  heaveniy  rapture  to  my  strains  impart, 

Thou,  first  of  Muses,  shalt  inspire  my  lays, 

And  thou  alone  the  subject  of  my  praise; 


JOSEPH  EICKEE.  845 


First  in  the  sacred  choir  my  seat  shall  be, 
Nor  daring  Clio  seek  to  rival  thee. 

Ah,  pleasing  Memory,  why  again  restore 
Those  dreams  of  pleasure  on  my  native  shore  ? 
There  no  rude  care  my  tranquil  mind  oppressed, 
No  wish  unanswered  labored  in  my  breast, 
The  Stateman's  wreath,  the  Poet's  garland-crown, 
The  Hero's  triumph,  and  the  Chief's  renown, 
Before  my  eyes  imagination  spread — 
And  daring  fancy  placed  them  on  my  head. 


Born  in  Parsonatteld,  Me.,  June  27,  1814;  a  teacher  in  early  life;  studied  at  Gorham 
Academy  and  at  Paraonafteld  Seminary,  and  in  select  schools  near  home.  Graduated 
from  what  is  now  Colby  University  in  1839,  with  distinction.  Nearly  four  years  editor  of 
Zion's  Advocate,  Portland.  Chaplain  Massachusetts  State  Prison  two  years.  For  twen 
ty-seven  years  pastor  of  Baptist  Churches  in  Maine  and  Massachusetts;  Secretary  of 
Baptist  Conventions  on  several  occasions,  and  has  been  Chaplain  of  the  Maine  Insane 
Hospital;  Superintendent  of  State  missionary  work,  and  efficient  in  assisting  educational 
institutions.  Oldest  member  of  the  Colby  board  of  trustees  in  point  of  service;  made 
D.  D.  by  that  university  in  1868.  He  has  raised  large  amounts  for,  and  has  given  gener 
ously  to  his  Alma  Mater,  and  to  missionary  organizations.  An  aceptable  preacher  and  a 
poet  of  ability.  Dr.  Ricker  is  passing  his  declining  days  in  Augusta  the  citv  of  his 
adoption.  ___^_ 

FROM  A  COMMENCEMENT  POEM. 
Say,  would  you  study  man,  the  noblest  thing 
That  is  on  earth,— creation's  lordly  king, 
Man  of  the  classic  or  barbarian  cast  ? — 
Go,  stir  the  ashes  of  the  shadowy  Past. 
In  his  brief  history  what  extremes  arise 
To  wake  inquiry  and  provoke  surprise! 
Struggling  alone  amid  life's  boiling  tide, 
Resolved  upon  the  topmost  wave  to  ride, 
Behold  this  deathless  thing,  this  moving  clod, 
This  standing  paradox,  this  insect-god, 
Now  mounting  on  the  wave  that  beats  the  sky, 
Now  plunging  in  the  deep  with  bubbling  cry, — 
Filled  with  alternate  hope  and  mute  despair, 
On  counter  currents  borne,  and  tossed  with  care, 
Till  wearied  out  he  gives  the  contest  o'er 
And,  while  we  wonder,  sinks  to  rise  no  more. 

O  mystery,  unsolved,  of  human  life ! 

From  mewling  infant  to  the  dying  strife — 

What  towering  hopes,  what  wrecks  of  splendid  schemes, 

What  restless  watchings,  and  what  fevered  dreams 

Crowd  on  the  view  in  quick  confused  array, 

Like  giddy  actors  in  the  mimic  play. 

Unsolved  ?    Nay,  be  that  the  atheist's  word. 


846  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

His  system,  not  more  cynic  than  absurd, 

Shaking  its  palsied  limbs,  attempts  in  vain 

To  hide  its  weakness  under  cold  disdain ; 

Asserts  with  bloodless  lip  and  stony  eye, 

By  chance  men  live  and  move,  by  chance  they  die; 

By  chance  they  hope  and  suffer,  smile  and  weep, 

By  chance  they  moulder  in  eternal  sleep! 

And  is  it  so,— is  this  the  frightful  doom 

Of  the  pale  tenant  of  the  voiceless  tomb  ? 

Forbid  it,  Instinct,  Reason,  Faith,  Desire, 

And  all  who  inly  feel  the  immortal  fire,— 

And  Thou  who  cam'st  the  higher  life  to  give, 

Forbid  the  thought !  for  we  that  life  would  live. 

Blest  hope!    Beyond  the  purlieus  of  the  grave, 
What  fields  of  light  in  boundless  prospect  wave ! 
There  all  the  good,  the  pure,  the  meek  of  earth, 
Both  ransomed  men,  and  those  of  higher  birth, 
Shall  tune  their  harps  to  mysteries  yet  unknown, 
And  chant  their  anthems  round  the  eternal  throne. 

Yes,  let  whole  empires  into  night  be  hurled, 

Let  sudden  terror  seize  the  quaking  world, 

Let  systems  crumble  and  to  atoms  fly, 

Let  un-orbed  planets  shoot  athwart  the  sky, 

Let  universal  nature  gasp  for  breath, 

And  sink  convulsed  in  momentary  death — 

Still  man,  called  forth  from  sea,  and  cave,  and  tomb, 

Shall  rise  in  fresher  youth  and  brighter  bloom, 

Shall  leave  his  bed  of  dust  and  long  decay, 

And  soar  and  sing  in  realms  of  endless  day ! 


amage  $§nztnwn. 


Born  in  Fryeburg,  Me..  June  1,  1813;  died  in  Montpelier,  Vt.,  Sept.  16,  1860.  Gradu 
ated  from  the  University  of  Vermont  in  1837,  and  while  there  was  editor-in-chief  of  the 
Burlington  Sentinel.  He  founded  several  papers,  one,  in  1840,  at  Woodstock  —  the  Spirit 
of  the  Age,—  which  became  famous  for  its  energetic  utterances,  and  he  was  also  proprietor 
of  the  Vermont  Patriot,  at  Montpelier.  He  was  a  number  of  the  Democratic  National 
Conventions  of  1848,  1852,  1856  and  1860;  in  1852  and  1853  a  member  of  the  Vermont  State 
Senate,  and  six  years  postmaster  of  Montpelier.  His  wife,  Mrs.  Susan  S.  Havens,  of 
Woodstock.  Vt.,  survives  him.  Two  editions  of  Mr.  Eastman's  poems  have  been  pub 
lished,  and  both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe  his  writings  have  received  the  highest 
commendation. 

A  PICTURE. 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While  his  hale  old  wife  with  busy  care 

Was  clearing  the  dinner  away. 


AUTHOR  UNKNOWN.  847 

A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes 

On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 

With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face; 
He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 

Used  to  sit  in  the  self-same  place ; 
As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 
"Don't  smoke!"  said  the  child,  "how  it  makes  you  cry!" 

The  house-dog  lay,  stretched  out  on  the  floor, 

Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal; 
The  busy  old  wife  by  the  open  door 

Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel, 
And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantle-tree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 

While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 

Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed; 
His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay: 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both  that  summer  clay ! 


jjnkiwwn. 

The  following  poem,  first  published  in  Vanity  Fair,  Feb.  9, 1861,  was  written  by  one;of 
Maine's  most  gallant  soldiers.  The  bravery  with  which  he  fought  to  fulfil  his  prophecy 
has  made  his  name  a  synonym  for  courage  and  chivalry,  but  he  will  not  allow  us  to  give  it. 


FABULA  DOCET. 

A  slender  vine  on  an  old  oak  hung, 

And  clasped  its  scaly  rind; 
From  trunk  to  top  its  pennons  flung, 

And  laughed  to  scorn  the  wind. 

And  men  who  passed  the  way  along, 
Admired,  and  oft  would  speak 

Of  the  kindly  law  that  gave  the  strong 
To  aid  and  shield  the  weak. 

Indeed  it  was  as  fair  a  sight 

As  any  in  the  land, 
To  see  the  puny  parasite 

Upborne  by  tree  so  grand. 


848  THE  POETS  OF  MAINE. 

One  day,  the  vine  in  anger  said : 

"  My  tendrils  I'll  untie — 
Alone,  aloft  I  '11  rear  my  head, 

And  leave  the  oak  to  die." 

The  winds  were  out;  and  strong  they  grew, 
And  hurtled  through  the  air; 

They  whistled  and  blew,  the  old  oak  through, 
And  laid  its  branches  bare. 

The  tempest  ceased;  its  rage  was  o'er; 
The  sunbeams  gaily  shine; 

The  sturdy  oak  stood  as  before- 
Low  lay  the  lifeless  vine. 


CONTENTS 


UA.  B.  C." 529 

Abraham  Lincoln 659 

Advent  of  the  Snow,  the 374 

After  Forty  Years 169 

After  the  Rain 558 

Age 303 

Agnes 565 

Air  Chateau,  an 50 

"A.  L." , 243 

Album  Tribute 211 

Alexander  750 

All  Night  in  Prayer 747 

Alongshore 767 

Amaranth,  the 109 

Ambition  and  Revenge   125 

American  Farmer,  the 55 

Amo 816 

Among  the  Shadows 824 

Andre 180 

Androscoggin,  the 62 

Angel  in  the  Stone,  the 838 

Anna's  Baby 422 

Another  Year 340 

Antiopa     213 

Apotheosis 844 

Apple  Blossoms 410 

April 294 

April  Fool 692 

Arbor  Day 542 

Artist-Prisoner,  the.   315 

Association 625 

At  the  Fireside 611 

At  Old  Orchard  Beach 705 

At  the  Old  Home 222 

Auld  Lang  Syne 51 

Babyland 570 

Baby's  Grave 456 

Bacchanalian  Song 477 

Bald  Head  Cliff .338 

Ballata  Italiana 721 

Baptismal  Hymn . .    48 

Bar  Harbor 540 

Beating  of  the  Rain 475 

Beautiful  Bird 531 

Beautiful  Isles  of  the  Shoals.. . .  807 
Beauty  in  Use 318 


Beethoven 786 

Belfry  Pigeon,  the 88 

Bell-Buoy  on  Christmas 776 

"Belles,"  the ...  640 

Bells  of  San  Bias 104 

Benevolence 140 

Bertie • 463 

Beside  the  Sea ' 671 

Bethel,  Early  Settlers  of 643 

Better  in  the  Mornin' 594 

Better  Land,  the 381 

Better  Life,  the 840 

Bible,  the 414 

Birch  Stream 690 

Bird  Love 272 

Bird  of  the  Bastile,  the 127 

Birth  of  a  Poet,  the 41 

Birth  of  the  Rose,  the 534 

Birthplace  Memories 326 

Blissful  Vision,  a  468 

Blue  Eyes '. .    692 

Bonaventura 204 

Bonny  Woods  of  Maine 821 

Boot  and  Saddle 380 

Bowdoin  Oak,  the 538 

Bowdoin  of  1840 573 

Boy  on  the  Train,  the 734 

Boys  in  Winter,  the 756 

Boys  of  Old  Buxton,  the 338 

Bridal  Song 325 

Bridge  of  Faith,  a 505 

Broken  Household,  a 279 

Brook,  the 631 

Brother's  Memory,  a 302 

Building  of  the  School-house. . .  708 
Build  Up  the  Wall 391 

Calling  the  Cows 353 

Calm  Content 2 

?an  We  Measure 774 

"ape  Cottage 41 

)ape  Neddick  Harbor 803 

)asco  River 141 

Jentemiial  Greeting 223 

Centennial  Hymn 229 

entennial  Hymn 461 

hange 378 

hanged 674 


850 


CONTENTS. 


Changeless  Song,  a 818 1  Demon  of  the  Sea 


Chapel  in  the  Heart 752 

Charity 395 

Charity 777 

Childhood's  Faith 365 

Child  is  Lost,  a 279 

Children 828 

Child's  Dream,  a 525 

Child's  Grave,  a 742 


P.AGE 
.    170 


Departed,  the 158 

Departure,  the  432 

Dip  the  Flag  Rev'rently 702 

Dirigo 652 

Divorced 748 

Dolce  Far  Niente 451 

Dominie  M'Laren 778 


Donation  Gathering,  a 270 

Child's  Prayer,  the 759 1  Don't  Stab  Him  in  the  Back  ...  666 

Christian  Poet,  the 238 1  Do  You  Love  Me 545 

Christian's  Dream,  the. 133|Doubt 588 

Christian  Soldier's  Easter  Hymn  420  Dream,  a 93 


Christmas  Bells  are  Ringing....  429 

Christmas  Eve 209 

Christmas  Memory,  a. 761 


Dream  of  Life,  the 299 

Dreams 117 

Dream  that  Was  Not  All  a  Dream  215 


Christ,  the  Vine 583  Drifting ; 823 

Chocorua 494  Driving  Home  the  Cows 667 


Choicest  Treasure,  the 417 

Churning 389 

City  By  My  Wall,  the. 116 

City  of  My  Love 324 

City  of  the  Violet  Crown,  the. .  779 

Clara 92 

Color  Fires 657 

Columbia,  My  Country 4d7 

Come  to  the  Saviour 167 

Coming  Home 621 

Complaint  of  the  Indian  Chief..    30 

Consola 247 

Consolation 432 

Constancy 387 


Constitution,  the. 


828 


Contentment 797 

Convention  Hymn 274 

Cornell  Chimes,  the 775 

Country  Justice,  the 32 

Courage  Forever 368 


Drop  of  Honey,  the 335 

Dude,  the 667 

Dying  Girl,  the 160 

Dying  Husband,  the 138 

Eagle  Light 811 

Eagle  Trees,  the 740 

Earliest  Fire-Fly,  the 212 

Earth's  Vigil 350 

Easter  Carol,  an 261 

Easter  Hymn 429 

Easter  Reveille,  the 430 

East  and  West 738 

Easter  Song,  an 207 

Ecclesiastes 457 

Egbert 466 

Empty  Trundle-Bed,  the 397 

Encouragement 681 

Entrance  657 

Estranged 370 


Covered  Bridge,  the 200  j  Esquimau  Joe ....    485 


Crowning  the  Temperance  Ban 
ner 445 

Crystal  Morning,  the 355 

Cutter  "  Water-Lily,"  the 427 

Evening  on  the  Harbor 834 

Daily  Trials 226 1  Excelsior 418 

Dandelions 782  Exile,  the 65 

Dante 630  Extract  from  an  Eulogy 9 


Evelyn 596 

Evening 628 

"Evening  Echo,"  the  507 

Evening  in  the  Pays  DeVaud ...  577 


Dame  Hildreth's  May  Day 446 

Darkened  Parlors 399 

Days  Go  On,  the 483 

Dead 835 

Death  of  E.  Payson,  D.  D.,  the.     87 

Death  of  Napoleon 91 

December  Days 16 

December  Snow 366 


Extract  from  the  "Vale  of  the 

Hoosatunnuk' ' 22 

Extract,  an 844 

"  Fair  Argument,  a  " 677 

Fair  Columbia 291 

Fairy  Land 60 

Faith,  Hope,  Charity 199 


Decoration  Day .' 359  j  Fairy  Wedding,  the 

Dedication  Hymn 149 1  Fame 


496 
822 


CONTENTS. 


851 


PAGE  ! 


469 
35 


450 
265 


Fancy,  a 

Fare  Thee  Well 

Farewell  

Fast  Asleep 

Father  Rale's  Soliloquy. ... 

Fire-flies  in  the  Wheat 

Fire  of  Apple- Wood,  the . . . 

Fire  of  Home,  the 

Fisher's  Wife,  the 

First  Christmas,  the 

First  Day  at  School 

First  Smile,  the 182 

Flood 

Flowers  of  Life,  the 

For  an  Album 

For  "Brownie's"  Album 

Forget  Me  Not 

For  Old  Time's  Sake 

For  Right's  Own  Sake 

For  the  Dedication  of  an  Album 

For  the  Harvest 

Fourth  of  July 

Fragment 588 

From  a  Commencement  Poem. .  845 

From  "Ad  Sodales  " 240 

From  "My  First  Courtship"....  198 

From  Sea  to  Sea 605 

From  "  The  Dead  " 241 

From  the  "New  Year". 151 

From  the  "Scottish  Covenant 
ers" 145 

Gambetta 278 

Gamester's  Verdict,  the 19 

Gathering  of  the  Covenanters  .  271 

Gentians 649 

Girl  I  Love  is  in  Germany,  the. .  559 

Glamour 615 

Gleanings 663 

God's  Letter 830 

Golden  Rod 560 

Golden  Sunset,  the 245 

Good-Bye 197 

Good  Immortal,  the 444 

Grandmother,  the 205 

Grandmother's  Cupboard 769 

Granite  Isles,  the 787 

Grave  Yard  at  Sippican 553 

Greatness  of  Love,  the 56 

Growing  Old 664 

Growing  Old 760 

Growing  Older 812 

Guest,  the 328 


782  j  Ha3C  Fabula  Docet 847 

190  |  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of  Jair- 
184 !         us 84 

Heavenly  Guest,  the 211 

Heavenly  Trust 155 

515 1  Helen 610 

320|  Her  Story 484 

783  j  Hidden  Forces 781 

601 1  Hills  of  Maine 698 

527!  His  Will 411 

572  Holy  Grail,  the 547 

Home  of  My  Childhood,  the ....    79 


Home  Seeker,  the 478 

Homeward  Way,  the 486 

290!  Hope 476 

564 !  Hope,  Faith  and  Charity 232 

378  Hopeful  Case,  a 635 

783  Hours,  the 131 

569 !  How  Can  I  Keep  From  Giving  ?  262 

391  i  Hymn 72 

187  Hymn 242 

731   Hymn 361 

Hymn 820 

Hymn  for  Baptism 74 

Hymn  for  Christmas 28 


Ideals 296 

If  I  Could  Know 713 

Illuminated  Texts 648 

Illusion 592 

Incident  of  a  Hospital,  an 280 

Indecision  707 

Indian  Summer 480 

Ingle  Whispers  ...... 765 

In  Memoriam 360 

In  Memoriam,  R.  D.  Hubbard. ..  688 

Inner  Voice,  the 186 

In  Portland 588 

In  School 716 

In  School 784 

Inside  Plum  Island 512 

In  the  Battle  of  Life 405 

In  the  Firelight 727 

In  the  Future 684 

In  the  Sunlight 789 

In  the  Twilight 680 

In  Thy  Temple,  Great  Jehovah.    52 

Invalid,  the 403 

Invitation,  the 263 

Irishman's  Dream,  the 679 

Island  Pine,  an 719 

"  It  Is  Beautiful  There" 624 

I  Would  not  Live  Al way 67 


Happy  Moments 96  j 

Happy  Years 412  June  in  Maine , 347 

Harry 479  '  June  Song  of  Roses,  a 637 


852  CONTENTS. 


Keep  at  Work 123 

Keep  Cool 714 

Kennebec,  the 333 

Kiarsarge 493 


Lord,  My  Weak  Thought 122 

Lost  Gem,  the 143 

Lost  Lilies 789 

Love  against  Love 296 


Kindness  Returned 424 1  Love  and  Service 

Kind  Words 140  j  Loved  and  Lost 645 

Kineo 536  Love's  Blind 203 

Kiss  Me  Before  You  Go 389|Love  of  Country 549 

Kittery 634  j  Lover's  Poem,  a 27 

Kittie's  Grave.... •  304  Love's  Calendar 404 

Love's  Dream 357 

Lafayette 10  Love's  Pain 647 

Lake  George -.  790  Love  Song,  a 653 

Lake  Lucerne 523;  Love's  Time  774 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims 52  j  Lovewell's  Fight 101 

Landscape 54  j 

Last  Leaf,  the 76  j  Maennertreu 809 

Last  Messenger,  the  294 1  Magdalen 703 

Latter  Snow,  the 95  Maine 90 

Law  vs.  Saw 266 1  Maine  General  Hospital  Fair ....  603 

Lawyer,  the 31  j  Maine  In  California 61 1 

Left  Behind 188  Maine  To  California 433 

Legend  of  Red  Island,  a 508  Maine  Woods 686 

Lend  a  Helping  Hand 712  j  Maine's  Queen  City 598 

Lesson,  a 685 !  Margaret 609 

Lesson  in  Geography ...  7iK>  Margaret's  Chamber 669 

Let  Not  Him  that   Girdeth  on        !  Marguerite .      328 

His  Harness 402  i  Maternal  Influence 65 

Let  Us  Run  with  Patience 619  \  May 451 

Life  Savers,  the 352 !  May-Day  In  New  England  217 

Life's  Knitting- Work 398  j  McClellan 679 

Life's  Light  and  Shade 191 '  Measurement 732 

Life's  November 673  i  Memorial  Ode 771 

Life's  True  Significance 807  j  Memory 18 

Life  that  Hath  no  End 506 <  Men  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  the. ...  194 

Life  to  Come 182 1  Mental  Beauty 71 

Light  of  Liberty,  the 118!  Merry  Old  Household  Fire 162 

Light  on  the  Cloud 650;  Merry  Old  School-Bell,  the 827 

Lily  of  the  Vale,  the 15 '  Merula 736 

Lilies 75  j  Message,  the 758 

Lines 165  Mighty  Conqueror,  the 211 

Lines 487  Mill-Stream,  the 204 

Lines  for  a  Silver  Wedding 385 1  Mind  and  Thought 679 

Lion  and  the  Skunk,  the 201 1  Mind,  the 139 

Little  Barefoot  Maiden 745 1  Minute-Man,  the 763 


Little  Child's  Belief 362 

Little  Child  Shall  Lead  Them..  532 

Little  Graves,  the 38 

Little  Ones 606 

Little  Star,  the 70 

Little  Straw  Hat 376 


Miriam 482 

Mithra 809 

Modern  Newspaper,  the 17-6 

Moon's  Lullaby,  the 421 

Moral  Might 117 


More  Love  to  Thee,  O  Christ.. . .  234 

Little  While,  a 819 1  Morning 293 

Living  Fountain,  the 55 1  Morning 772 

Long  Ago 394 1  Morning  Light  is  Breaking,  the  120 

Looking  Back 589  i  Morning  on  Lake  Winnipiseogee  336 

Looking  Toward  the  Sunset 753  Morning  Ride,  a 555 

Looking  Unto  God 244  Mother-Days 804 


CONTENTS. 


853 


PAGE 

Mountaineer,  the 813 

Mount  Blue 670 

Mount  Pleasant 453 1  Night 772 

Mountains,  the 795 1  Night  and  Morning 839 

Mountain-Tops 837  Night  in  the  Woods 113 

Mount  Washington 58 

Mournful  Song,  a 106 

Music 384 

Music  and  Memory 193 

Music  in  the  Night 516 


Music  Lesson,  a 810 

Musings 357 


PAGE 

New  Era,  a 371 

New  England 157 


Nixie,  the 751 

North  Conway 382 

Northern  Maine 689 

Novemher 246 

Now  and  Then 402 


Nursery,  the  ...................  363 


October..  ..  333 


Ode. 
Ode. 
Ode. 


45 

228 
414 


Musings  Amid  Scenes  of  Other 

Days  317 

My  Childhood's  Home 393 

My  Children's  Home 431 

My  Child's  Origin J?^ !  Ode  For  the  Fourth  of  July ....  361 

MyChum     •;"•••••• &g  Ode  to  the  Snow 195 

My  Country 'Tis  of  Thee ^Oi  O  Do  Not  Grieve 155 

My  Cross 548 1  Q  Lady  Sing  That  Song 159 

ZPE™^?"™ ££  Old  Clock,  the 435 

My  D wellmg-Place o02  old  chiefs   the  268 

My  Eighty-Eighth  Birthday ....  839  old  Door.^ii?  the  '.'.'.'.'.' '.'.'.'.  .'.'.'.  467 


My  Faith  Looks  Up 122 

My  Favorite  Flower. 
My  First  Love . 


Old  Door-Stone 526 


2^  Old  Elm-Tree,  the . '. ....... '.      ] '.  530 

xty  Vi;St  T Tr' '  v '' ' '  i AM   Old  English  Gentleman,  an 275 

My  Friend-My  Friend 401  old  FL4.Wheel .'  .         . .  666 


My  Gift 234 

My  Girlie  449 

My  Kittie 303 

My  Little  Shining  Star 432 

My  Lost  Youth 97 

My  Monitor 761 

My  Mother 431 

My  Mother 675 

My  Name* 309 

My  N  ati ve  Land 64 

My  Neighbors 746 

My  Old  Home 460 

My  Old  Violin 61 

My  Portland  Home 305 

My  Prayer 501 

My  Queen 815 

My  Ship 653 

My  Two  Young  Oaks 448 

Mystery  of  Life  In  Christ,  the. .  235 

My  Surest  Stay  Is  God 622 

My  Treasures 654 

My  Wings 250 

National    Eagle    and    William 

Ladd,  the 47 

National  Ode 219 

Nature  and  the  Soul 157 

Nature's  Dower 408 

Nature,  the  Revelations  of 298 

New  and  Old  Grief 174 


Old  Friends  655 

Old  Home  Barn,  the 322 

Old  Home  in  the  Lane,  the 693 

Old  Homestead,  the 604 

Old  Letter,  an 504 

Old  Maid's  Children,  the 546 

Old  Mansion,  the 502 

Old  Oaken  Cradle,  the  571 

Old  Ocean's  Wooing 833 

Old  Orchard  Beach,  at 705 

Old  Pasture,  the 313 

Old  Picture,  an 785 

Old  Psalm  Time,  the. . .  .  152 

Old  Second  Parish  Clock 115 

Old  Uncle  Billy  Whittemore. . .  681 
O  Let  Me  Die  in  the  Sweet 

Spring-Time 418 

On  a  Picture  of  Sunset  in  the 

Adirondacks 786 

On  Cape  Elizabeth 806 

One  Talent,  the 67 

On  George  Washington 9 

On  Islesboro 754 

On  Loch  Katrine 576 

Only 561 

Only  a  Bird's  N  est 673 

Only  Ferns  525 

Only  Waiting 541 

On  the  Death  of  Edward  Payson  87 
On  the  Death  of  George  III. ...  6 


854  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


PAGE 


Promise 840 

Putting  up  the  Bars 816 

Pygmalion's  Statue 656 


On  Visiting  My  Home  ..........  1G9 

On    Visiting    the    Old    Ladies' 
Home  ...............  .......  364 

Open  Casement  at  Babylon  ......  566 

Ordination  Hymn  ----  .'  .........  172 

Oriole,  the  .....................  672  Quaker  Church,  a  ...............  337 

Orphan's  Lament,  the  ..........    80  Queen  Aster  ...................  292 

Other  World,  the  ...............  154  Queen  of  the  Night  ............  151 

O  this  is  Not  My  Home  .........    96  i 

O   Touch    that    Tender    Chord         Rain  the  744 

'''''''''**'''   ''''' 


A  i  Rainbow,  the.............  .....    161 

Our  Auburn  ....................  J£  Baindropt,  tiw  ..................  359 

Sur5ia^y,r  "ir  w  .............  I?J  Kain  on  the  Roof  ...............  584 

Our  Childhood's  Home  .........  441  Recompense  ...................  819 

Our  Christmas     ..............    3<o  ;  Reflections  at  Night  ............  424 

Our  Country's  Cause  ...........  390  Reform  Club  Hymn,  a  ..........  463 

Our  Dead  Singers  ..............  <_30  Kelief  of  Henneboii  the  ........  498 

Our  Home  .....................  ^Remorse  .........  .  ............  476 

Our  Legacy  ...................  413  'R  equiem  .......................  528 

Our  Queen.  .............  413  Kesurrexit  .....................  685 

Our  Returned  ]S  atives  ..........  232  ,  Retrospection  ..................  369 

Out  of  1  une  ...................  Sob  .  Returned   Maine   Battle  Flags, 

the  .......................  603 

Painted  Sands  of  Alum  Bay,  the  321  ;  Revelations  of  Nature,  the  ----  298 

Palsied  Heart,  the  ..............  438  Reveries  .......................    82 

Passing  Away  .................    73  Reveries  ........................    94 

Patiently  Wait.  .  .    .............  342  1  Revisited  ........  ..............  711 

Patrick  O'Neil  .................  221  Revolving  Light,  the  ..........  252 

Peace  .................  .........  777  Rise  Up  and  Walk  ..............  300 

Peace  Hymn,  a  .................  119  i  Rock  Me  to  Sleep  ..............  474 

Pedagogical  Cogitations  ........  832  Rock  of  Ages  ..............  _____  732 

Penobscot  Bay  ................  531  Rope-Walk,  the  ................    99 

Pepperell's  Tomb  ..............  276  j  Royal  Heir,  the  .................  814 

Pescadero  Pebbles,  the  .........  651  Royalty  ......................  295 

Phantom  Cross,  the  ............  325  Ruth  ...........................  744 

Philosopher  and  the  Poet,  the.  .  752 
Physiognomy  .................     11  1 

Picture,  a  ......................  808  Sabbath  Evening  ----  '.  .........  107 

Picture,  a  ......................  846  •  Sailor's  Wife,  the  ...............  648 

Pictured  Faces  .................  631  j  Same  Old  Song,  the  ............  Ill 

Pine  Coolies  of  Minnesota,  the.  425  Samuel  Pickard  ...............  236 

Pilgrim's  Plaint,  the  ............  400  Sand  Storm,  the  ................  770 

Piscataquis  River  .............  831  i  Saturday  Afternoon  ............    89 

Pitchwood  Hill  .................      3  Saturday  Evening  .............    28 

Pity  the  Wanderers  ............  814  j  Say  "  Mother  "  ..................  724 

Playing  Copenhagen  ...........  646  Scandal  .  ........................  390 

Poet's  Home,  the  ..............  146  1  Scarlet  Frock,  the  ..............  456 

Policy  .........................  274  School-Time  .................  616 

Pond  Lilies  .....................  585  Seclusion  .......................  562 

Portland  ............  ..........  170  i  Season  in  the  Country,  the  .....  386 

Poverty-Grass  ..................  781  iSelling  the  Baby  ................  800 

Power  of  Place  ................  842  1  Sentry's  Hymn  .................  353 

Power  of  the  Press  .............    16  !  Seven  Years  Old  ................  568 

Prayer,  a  .......................  805  Seven  Years  Past  ...............  510 

Present,  the  ....................  226  Sexton'  s  Appointment,  the  .....      1 


Priceless  .......................  828 

Progression  ....................  110 


Shadows  .......................  358 

Shadow-Boat,  a  ................  763 


CONTENTS.  855 


PAGE |  PAGE 

Shakespeare's  Tomb 40  Storm  and  the  Rainbow,  the 500 

Shine  On 120|  Storm-Angel,  the 330 

Silent  Symphony 459  Story  of  a  Queen,  the 453 

Silver 339  j  Story  of  the  Pearl,  the 638 

Silver  Lining,  the 251 !  Strangers 683 

Skipper's  Faith,  the  793 1  Strife  and  Victory 307 

Sleep  of  Nature,  the 281  j  Strive  to  Make  the  World  Better  142 

Slumber 264 'Summer  is  Coming  to  the  North- 
Slumber  Song 720         land 496 

Small  to  the  Great,  the 828'  Summer  Morning,  a 327 

Smiles  Oft  Deceive  Us 188  Summer  Sea,  the 366 

Snow  Banners  of  the  Alps 578  Summer  Skirmish,  a 798 

Snow-Drop,  the 150 !  Summer-Time 614 

Snow-Fail 788  Sunrise  at  Jackson,  N.  H 319 

Snow-Storm,  the 37  Sunset 580 

Soldier's  Grave 634  Sunset,  at 586 

Solitary,  the 35  Sunset  Illumination,  the 554 

Somebody 697  Swan  of  Loch  Oich,  the 44 

Some  Day 826  Swedish  Wife,  the 499 


Somerset,  the 124 


Sweet  Sixteen 636 


Song 318 

Song 586 !  Tarratines'  Victims,  the 25 

Song 632  Teacher's  Life,  a 835 

Song  688  i  Teachings,  the 329 

Song 786  Tears 12 

Song 805 !  Temperance 14 

Song  for  the  Old  Year,  a 522 !  Tempest-Driven,  the 126 

Song— Love  and  Death 253  Temples 828 

Song  of  Age 396!  Tempted  and  Betrayed 587 

Song  of  a  Blind  Girl 269  Terror,  the 284 

Song  of  the  Loom 699!  Thalatta 796 

Song  of  Old  Orchard 292  Thanks 172 

Song  of  Sleep,  the 282  Thanksgiving 723 

Song  of  the  Bullion 406  Thought,  a 395 

Song  of  the  Snow  Fairies 813  Thoughts  at  the  Base  of  Niagara   48 

Song  of  the  Valley,  the 618|  Thoughts  of  Heaven 443 

Song  of  Youth 396  Thoughts  on  Creation 75 

Songo  River 102J  Threescore 800 

Song  to  the  Roses 273  Threnody 392 

Sonnet 486|  Tide  Is  Out 544 

Sonnet 690  Time 209 

Sonnet 806' To  a  Beloved  Friend 203 

South  Thomaston 24  To  a  Bereaved  Mother 121 

Spinning 770  To  a  Burgundy  Rose 243 


Spinning  and    Weaving  in  the 
Bird's  Home..  ..  348 


To  an  Imported  Skylark 591 

To  an  Infidel .'  ..345 


Spirit  at  Mount  Hope 53 1  To  a  Lady 77 

Spirit  Voices 2251  To  a  Songstress 297 

Spring 63  To  a  Very  Small  Pine 797 

Spring 341  i  Tobacconalian  Ode 285 

Staff  and  the  Tree 780 !  To-Day 485 

Stanzas 80  To-Day 633 

Stanzas  on  Recovery  from  Illness  231 1  To-Day  and  To-Morrow 220 

Steamboat  Dude,  the 427;  To  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Moses  Sweat. .  346 

Steamboat  Knitting 202 j  To  Grandfather 275 

St.  John  in  Exile 185  To  Governor  Chamberlain 445 

Stood  Alone 266  \  To  Henry  W.  Longfellow 173 


856 


CONTEXTS. 


To  John  G.  Whittier.  .t 

To  Mary.. 

To-Morrow 

To  Miss  Hayden 

To  Mrs.  Elliot  Smith  

ToMrs.M.E.N 

To  My  Mother 

To  My  Mother  

To  My  Saddle-Horse 

To  Mystic 

To  My  Wife 

To  One  Afar   

To  Portland • 

To  Rev.  H.  S.  Burrage,  D.  D. . . . 

To  the  "Monarch"  on  Leaving 

Portland  Harbor 

To  the  Northern  Lights 

To  Augusta 

Transfigured •  •  • 

Tress  That  is  Faded  and  Gray . . 

Tribute  to  Fryeburg  and  Web 
ster 

True  Beauty 

True  Fame 

Trust  in  God 

Trust  in  God 

Try  Again 

Twenty-One 

Twenty-Two 

Two  Hands 

Two-Hundred  Years  Ago 

Two  Lone  Elms,  the 

Two  Pictures 

Types 

Uncle  Stephen 

Under  an  Umbrella 

United  States  Flag,  the ...  

Unknown 

Unseen  but  Real 

Unter  Den  Linden  

Untimely  Recollection,  an 

Unwilling  Bride,  the 


_  PAGE 

173 !  Voice  of  Maine,  the 829 

440] 

5S-  Waiting 144 

8 1  Waiting -. 5Q7 

743  waiting............ 825 


437 


Wanted  To  Be  An  Editor 519 


030 
164 

609 

297 

607 
174 


621 


Warrior's  Fountain,  the 434 

288  Washington 18 

1    Vashington 166 

Vatcher,  the 356 

Vatching  403 

Vatching 632 

Vatchmaii,  What  of  the  Night.  245 

Vatch  of  Boon  Island,  the 517 

Vay  of  Life,  the     310 

Vear  the  Smile  of  Gladness. . . .  214 

Veep  Not  For  the  Dead  129 

Velcome,  the 464 

Velcome  Home,  the 768 

Velcome  of  Earth 283 

Vendell  Phillips 277 

Vest's    Picture  of   the    Infant 

Samuel 1M 

Vhat  Are  You  Thinking  ? 256 

Vhat  Is  Home  Without  a  Moth 
er  o 388 

4  What's  in  a  Name  ?" 817 

Vhat  is  True  Poetry 200 

When  First  Columbus « 

When  I  Shall  Sleep 694 

When  My  Ship  Comes  In 581 

When  Wrapped  in  Dreams ....  3^ 

Where  Are  the  Dead  ?...'. 205 

White-Head 472 

Whittier 8. 

Why  thus  Longing  ? g 

Wife,  the 775 

Wild  Roses 168 

William  Cullen  Bryant 639 

Will  You  Love  Me  When  I'm 

Old? 419 

Winter  in  May 26 

Winter  Scene 4bo 


Valentine •  ••• 

Value  of  Little  Things,  the. 

Vain  Regret,  a • 

Valkyria,  the • 

Vespers 

Vesper  Hymn 

Venetian  Moonlight 

Victim,  the 

Vine-life 

Violets 

Violets,  the • 

Vision  of  Immortality,  a. . . 

Vita  Nuova 

Voice  of  an  Old  Elm 


227 
307 
198 
481 

293 

56 

311 

717 

707 

488 
836 
20 
358 
332 
695 
791 
343 

438 
66 
697 
72 
145 
244 
108 
13( 
,  47 

!  534 
,  23 

.  65 


Winter  Starlight 


43 


Winter  Sunset,  a  ...............  524 

Wisdom  of  God,  the  ............  842 

Work  For  Christ  ..............  2( 

World  As  It  Is,  the  ............  11 

World  Is  Fair,  the  ..............  41 

Worldly  Mindedness  ...........  249 

Worth  of  Baubles,  the  .........  367 

Wounded  ......  ........  •  -  -  -  •  •  •  •  471 

Wreck  of  the  "  Two  Polhes".  .  .    32 
Written  in  An  Album  ..........  260 

Yellow  Bird  in  Winter,  a  .......  455 

Young  Lapp's  Cradle,  the  ......  331 


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50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  'of  loan  period. 


£0  19'- 


25m  -7,  '25 


215589 


